


Should night not fall (you make things dark)

by futureplans



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Cheating, Eventual Smut, F/F, Teacher-Student Relationship, alternative universe, general illegalities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:14:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24951397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futureplans/pseuds/futureplans
Summary: Eve's got a loving husband, a job as a professor of American Literature and a life that has perfectly settled into routine.Until her student, the rich and dazzling Astankova, decides that she'd like to show her a thing or two.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Niko Polastri, Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 76
Kudos: 514





	1. What do you feel?

“Niko?” Eve calls out, something between a groan and a whine. Her voice is muffled by the fabric of the pillow where she has buried her head.

“Yes, darling?” She can’t see him, but she knows exactly where he stands, adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. The last step before he leans down for a kiss and heads off to work.

She turns to the side, still nowhere near ready to leave the bed, and her hair falls messily over her eyes, refusing to behave even when she tries to brush it away. “What’s the worst thing that could happen if I just skipped work today?”

“Worst thing? You lose your job, we’re down to my high school teacher’s salary. We can’t afford the bills, lose the house, end up homeless and destitute.”

“Hmm. And would that _really_ be so bad?”

Niko chuckles, then leans down to kiss the side of her head. “We don’t have to be homeless. We can just move farther off from city centre, where it’s cheaper. But think of the commute.”

“Oh yeah, that’d be awful.”

Another chuckle and he is headed to the door. “I have to go now, see you tonight. There’s eggs on the stove and bread by the toaster.”

Arching backwards off the bed, she stretches her limbs and tries to avoid collapsing immediately back to snuggling the pillow. She squeezes out a light “Oh, I love you” at the good news, then turns over and squints at Niko’s profile by the door.

“You’re easy to please,” he jokes, and vanishes out the door. “Please don’t get fired,” he adds on his way downstairs. Eve snorts at the empty room.

It’s not easy to leave the bed, but she manages eventually. She turns on the radio to its peppiest station, which usually has one of two effects on her: either she bobs her head along to the tunes as she speeds through her morning routine, or she rolls her eyes sullenly at the very notion of something like “pep” being possible at such an early hour.

She chews on her toast and scoffs as the voice on the radio babbles something about being “so happy”.

Eventually she is fed and dressed and, after a panicked 10 minutes of rummaging through every bag, pocket and drawer in the house, she remembers that she never actually brought the students’ papers home, because she managed to grade them within her work hours for once, and all she has to do is stop by her office on her way to class.

The subway is packed, she burns her tongue on her coffee, somebody has locked the door from the access stairwell _again_ and she fumbles with 10 different keys before finding the right one.

She manages not to be the last one in the classroom, but only because she power-walks past a couple of stragglers, who step out of her way hurriedly with a confused “Good morning, Professor Polastri.”

And then she is no longer Eve Polastri, who is wearing socks that are very similar but not actually matching, who got elbowed in the ear on her way to work by a man who didn’t even pause his phone call to acknowledge her existence, who took twice as long showering this morning because she couldn’t remember whether she’d already washed her hair. She is Professor Polastri, teacher of American Literature, lead author on several papers, a responsible and respected adult.

And this time, she will _not_ get dragged into a 20-minute discussion of Hemingway’s merits.

(...)

Oksana hates routine. She hates mornings, she hates cooking, she hates schedules, she hates deadlines and she hates routine.

She eats some cold... _whatever_ , straight from the fridge, and throws a handful of writing utensils inside her bag and sighs, because this is the boring part. Picking her outfit, doing her hair and makeup, that part’s fun. She likes watching herself in the mirror, inspecting every angle to ensure perfection, practising a few expressions just for the hell of it. Quirk a brow and she is sceptical, tilt the other and now she is surprised, stretch her lips upwards and crinkle the corner of her eyes and she’s such a natural at smiling. Amazing.

But now the fun part is over and she’s just _packing her bag_ and _waiting for her ride_ and _hurrying_ to go to _school_ and her stove is dirty. Wow, it’s really dirty. Good thing the cleaners are coming in today.

The doorbell rings. It can’t be the driver, because he knows better than to come upstairs, so it must be them. Perfect timing.

She pulls the bag onto her shoulder with a little grimace—so cliché—and skips to the front door.

Oh. It’s just Konstantin.

“Why are you here?”

“You are in a bad mood,” he states blandly, just standing there. She is going to be late, which doesn’t bother her, but it is inconsiderate of him not to care.

“I am busy.”

“Off to school?”

He offers a paternal smile and she rolls her eyes because she knows he’ll offer to tag along and she’ll say no and he’ll want to go anyway and-

They sit silently in the back of the car. Oksana slumps, arms crossed.

“Are you angry with me?” Konstantin asks, and there’s a hint of amusement to his voice that is very much annoying.

“No, of course not,” she recites in a sing-song, “I love that you are running my businesses while I go to school and learn about _ontology_ and _linguistics_ and which German verbs are irregular.”

“Ah,” he says, like everything is obvious now because Oksana is an open book from which he can read with no trouble. “You don’t like school.”

“I love school. It’s my favourite. I don’t know what I’ll do with my evenings when there’s no more homework.”

“But you understand that it’s important. Education brings information and-”

“Information is everything,” she mimics over him, deepening her accent to match his.

He scowls and then keeps quiet for a bit. “It’s what your father wanted.”

“Yes, father. Such a shame how he...” She sighs, a deep long sigh, her shoulders shrugging up and down in time with it. “... left such a shitty will.”

“You’ll get control of the family business when you get your degree. It’s a reasonable-”

“I know,” she says airily. She’s bored with this conversation. It never goes anywhere, anyway. At least when Konstantin wasn’t based in London she didn’t have to keep having it, but now he’s settled here and he’s always around and what else is she going to talk about with him? The season’s latest boring overcoats?

“You were close to my father,” she states abruptly, before he can open his mouth again. “Tell me the truth, was he really FSB? MI6? Double agent? And what will I find out when I finally get access to my estate? Any shady business? Guns? There’s a ton of money in guns, we should get into it. If we haven’t already.” She pauses to wink conspiratorially at him.

“I hate when you do that.” Konstantin reaches up to rub at his ear, like her avalanche of questions has actually injured him. “I hated it when you were 12 and I hate it more now.”

“Do you think I’m safe, Konstantin? Maybe I should get more bodyguards. Did you know I almost got kidnapped once?”

“Oh, yeah? How did you get away, talk their ear off too?”

“No, I broke a guy’s nose and another one’s arm.”

Konstantin’s amused grin grows into a sudden scowl and he turns away, to look out the window.

“We are here,” he states pointlessly.

She slides out of the car without another word, hears its engine roar back to life as it slips away with Konstantin inside.

Konstantin is very annoying, but he is also afraid of her. Everybody has their own agenda, everybody has to be handled with smiles and harmless personas and exhausting usage of kid gloves. But Konstantin is afraid of her, which is good, because it means he knows better than to screw her over.

He’s still annoying, though.

She straightens up and brushes away any creases to her outfit and goes to class. How boring.

(...)

They’ve done it again. Eve doesn’t quite understand how it happened. They weren’t even talking about him. It isn’t the first time, but usually it starts from Fitzgerald or Faulkner. You know, gateway authors. This time, they were discussing morality in Hawthorne. How do you get from that to _Hemingway_?

And why are 20-somethings so obsessed with the guy?

Okay, yeah, Eve knows the answer to that one. But sometimes she wishes she could live in ignorant bliss.

She nods along to the discussion and what she wants to say is, “Why are you doing this to me, Daniel? Just because Hawthorne never went on a safari? Would you even know if he had, or is all your googling reserved for Ernest? Did you even do the assigned readings, Daniel? Did you even read The Scarlet Letter?”

But what she does say, because she is responsible and respectable and honestly a little too tired to get things back on track with less than 10 minutes of class left, is, “That’s an interesting point, Daniel, but how does it take into account his depiction of the armed forces in A Farewell to Arms?”

This stumps him for a bit, and _good—_ she’s only half-listening, to be honest, and for a moment there she was worried she’d just spewed gibberish. About 50% of her brain is already devoted to the tough dilemma of whether to have a snack between classes or save her appetite for lunch.

Maybe 60%.

Another voice pipes up, with a hint of roughness and an unmistakable accent. Eve is glad for the intervention, because at least Oksana knows what she’s talking about and doesn’t just throw all her opinions at the wall to see what sticks.

“Well, that depiction was mostly autobiographical. As Carlos Baker states...”

Alright, Eve is just fooling herself. She’s definitely going to have a snack and she knows it. Can she snag a Kit Kat? The vending machine by her office is always out and sure, she could get a Mars bar or something, but it’s just not the same.

Oksana goes on with her impressively accurate quote, as she usually does. She has a great head for facts, but it all feels a little... Soulless. All very factually correct, all very uninvested.

She probably _is_ uninvested. Her jacket alone looks like it costs more than Eve makes in a month, so it’s doubtful that she’ll find future employment in anything that requires knowledge of American literature. Or any employment at all.

Eve nods along absently then risks a glance at her watch. With a sigh of relief, she cuts the discussion short and sends everyone off.

“Your papers are on my desk, don’t forget to grab them on your way out. If you have any questions, ask them now or catch me during office hours.”

The students file out, most of them barely glancing at their papers as they quickly escape the classroom. Office hours it is, then. She gives some pointers to the scarce few that actually request them, then puts away her things, watching a blur of movement from the corner of her eye that she knows is the very last student in the room.

By the time she looks up, Oksana stands in front of her. She’s brandishing a polite smile and her own paper and _God_ , she’s got just the right kind of face for pulling off the hint of condescension that laces her every word. It’s not about pretty—although she is that too—, it’s something about the shape of her cheekbones, the cat-like slant of her eyes, the way her lips curve so that every smile is the suggestion of a smirk.

And it’s the way she stands too, Eve realizes as she takes her in more fully. She doesn’t stretch to her full height, quite the opposite actually. She slouches, like she’s bored of you before you’ve even opened your mouth, and she tilts her head backwards just enough to be looking down at you from behind lowered lashes. Her posture says she’s hot shit and she knows it and she knows that you know it too. Eve supposes that attitude would be a little easier to emulate if she too were dressed head to toe in designer brands, looking like she’s just stepped out of the stylist.

She suddenly remembers her mismatched socks. For some absurd reason, it feels like Oksana will just know about them, sense a disturbance in the fashion force.

“Professor Polastri, I was hoping to discuss my grade with you.”

“Yes, I thought you would.” If Oksana is surprised at her words, she doesn’t show it, but Eve knows her type. Straight-A student, knows it all, overachiever. They always want to argue away their Bs. “Did you have a look at my comments?”

Oksana flips to the last page. “Lacks a personal touch?” she reads out questioningly. The idea seems foreign to her.

“Look, from a technical point of view, this paper is impeccable. The structure, the sources, the arguments presented, they’re all great. But reading through it, I realized that there’s not a single statement in there that wasn’t made by someone else. You don’t really share your own opinion, ever.”

Eve pauses to give Oksana a chance to respond, but she doesn’t take it. For a moment, they watch each other in silence. It’s a bit unnerving.

“Most students come up with a hypothesis first, then throw in the sources that support it. But you... Here.” Eve leafs through the paper, reaching the desired page and pointing it out to Oksana. “You devote several paragraphs to how social class is highlighted both directly and indirectly in the text, but nowhere do you say what _you_ think of that choice.”

She pauses again. Still nothing from Oksana. Eventually, the girl seems to catch up on the atmosphere and gives a neutral hum.

“Okay, well. Some teachers would give this an A. Unluckily for you, I’m not one of those teachers. What I want my students to take away from this class isn’t a perfect knowledge of the main themes of all the authors in the syllabus. I’m quite aware you’ll forget half of it the moment you don’t need it for a grade any more. No, I want you to have the basic tools so that you can read a book 5, 10, 15 years later and get more from it than just the words on the page. You know? You have the sources mastered, now I want you to take the next step and make your own conclusions. What do you think when you read this text? What do you feel?”

“What do I _feel_?” is how Oksana finally breaks her silence, and the word sounds almost foreign as she speaks it. She seems confused by the whole concept. It’s not entirely unexpected, unfortunately. Students get so drilled into doing things mechanically that the thought of breaking the bubble and just following their instincts can become ludicrous.

Eve taps the paper before handing it over. “I see every big name in the field here, but it’s missing Oksana. It’s missing an identity. Put some soul into this paper and you’ll get an A. It’s challenging, I know, but it’ll be worth it.”

A shadow of something flies over Oksana’s eyes, draining them of all expression. She looks almost robotic then, and the sight is chilling. It’s as though she’s been overwhelmed by the panic of not measuring up, the threat of an unshakeable B in her transcript, and it’s taken her far away from herself.

Then she’s back, as cocky as ever, the change occurring in a flash, and she stares Eve down intensely.

“Well, Professor, the thing is-” She catches herself awkwardly, blinks away whatever was coming. “Is that I’m late. For my next class. I’ll be going now.”

With that, she’s off. Eve watches her go, shrugging to herself as she picks up her bag.

Those overachiever types are always so high-strung. Like they’re just going to snap one day and stab someone with a calligraphy pen.

(...)

Oksana returns to her apartment a full 3 hours earlier than usual, pulling her laptop out of her bag as she walks and immediately throwing herself onto the sofa with it. The bag flops to the ground somewhere behind her. It’s designer but eh, she can just get another one if it scuffs or something.

She missed her last class of the day to be here, but honestly, she was too excited after making her plan to sit and wait in a boring auditorium. She’ll get Konstantin to write her a note or something.

“ _The thing is_ ,” she types on the first line of the e-mail, not bothering with “hello” or “good afternoon” or “dear professor” or however it is you’re supposed to address them. This is more intimate, a direct continuation of their previous conversation, a way to get the upper hand from the start. Polastri remembers and Oksana knows that she remembers and now she will know that she knows that she remembers.

“ _The thing is that sharing my feelings isn’t such a simple task._ ”

God, she was pissed off when Polastri talked to her like she was some idiot who can’t grasp the basics.

 _Feel_ ? That’s what she’s paying over ten thousand pounds tuition for? So a mediocre person can tell her to _feel_? What was she even supposed to feel, reading those books? Bored? Annoyed? Impatient? Everybody in them takes forever to bitch and moan about their problems instead of just doing what they want.

Back to the e-mail. Should she apologize for walking out on their conversation? Maybe, but she doesn’t want to.

“ _It’s easier to focus on the facts. Keep things objective. When it comes to literary analysis I sometimes feel that...”_ The ellipses are too much. She quickly deletes them.

“ _I sometimes feel that there is no possible way to tell what is really meant. There are two reasons why you write of happiness. Because you are happy or because you are unbearably sad._ ”

Not her finest work, but she was never one for poetry.

She should never have picked this stupid class. She’s always hated literature, but she figured with some research it should be an easy grade. Instead, she got the moron that wants her to connect spiritually with a bunch of boring dead people. At first, she was ready to call in some fake complaint to the school, have her fired. She could have just paid them to do it, probably, but Konstantin would never sign off on the expense.

But then she calmed down and realized she could have a lot more fun with this. Why make up a _fake_ scandal and miss out on all the fun when she can actually sleep with Polastri, who while unbearably dull, also appears to have a nice body hidden underneath those drab clothes, and definitely has hair that Oksana could run her hands through for days? All she has to do is win her over, which has certainly never been a problem before.

“ _I don’t know what I feel when I read a book. And most of the time. I usually feel what people want me to feel, expect me to feel. But now you want me to find myself on the page and I know that it shouldn’t be so hard but I just can’t. There’s no expectation to cling to. I’m lost._ ”

She’s going to gag if she keeps this up much longer. What do insecure losers feel, anyway? She rambles on for a few more lines, moving back and forward to perfect her word choice, then leans back slightly to admire her work. It looks desperate and vaguely pathetic. Perfect.

“ _Do you think we could meet to discuss this? It isn’t an easy thing to talk about, but I think it’ll be worth it._ ”

She signs with a single “ _Oksana”_ then hits send, slamming the laptop shut as soon as she’s done. That was gruelling. But all for a good cause, right?

She gets up to make herself a drink, then checks her inbox to find Polastri has already responded.

“ _Thank you for reaching out like this, Oksana. Come by the office tomorrow._ ”

She takes a sip. No, the office won’t do at all. She types out an answer with one hand.

“ _Actually, I’m worried I’ll lose my nerve by then. Can we meet now?_ ”

An hour later, she leaves the apartment. She has changed into something a little more revealing, a little more suitable for the bar she’s chosen for their rendezvous. Her perfume is freshly applied and her hair carefully done up, coiled around her nape. She looks irresistible.

“Well, this is- I think I’m underdressed.”

Polastri’s joke doesn’t quite land because she really is underdressed. In fact, she looks like she just wrapped a coat over her house-clothes or something. Probably didn’t even check the address Oksana sent before she arrived at the secluded bar where they now sit. Second floor, corner table, the lighting just dim enough to foster intimacy.

“You look lovely,” Oksana half-lies. The potential is there, but that’s about where it stops. She appears to be wearing _sweatpants_.

The comment catches Polastri by surprise, but she doesn’t call attention to it. She buries her head in the menu, although Oksana can already tell she won’t go for any of the fancy cocktails. Following along, Oksana nods the waiter over and orders a glass of champagne. Polastri orders a gin and tonic. Simple and classic.

“Thank you so much for meeting me like this,” she offers in a low voice once the man is gone. She leans forward to say it, hand stretching out on the table but not quite reaching Polastri’s. Hesitation is always a good way to make your marks feel like they’re making the choice too. Let them take the last inch and they’ll forget how you pushed them for a mile to reach it.

“Oh, well, you sounded so serious in that e-mail, I felt... Okay, I’ll be totally honest with you.” Her voice drops to half its volume, as though revealing some dark secret. “I _was_ going to blow you off until tomorrow, but my husband took pity on you. You should be thanking him,” she adds with a laugh. Oksana laughs along, and wonders whether he’ll be regretting that encouragement soon enough. “Anyway I, uh, I didn’t know we’d be coming... here. I expected something more like a diner or a corner shop or... Do you live around here?”

“Couple of blocks away.” 20 minutes by car, actually.

Their drinks arrive. Polastri takes a sip of hers, humming a little at it. Oksana tastes her champagne. It’s fine. She doesn’t really care.

“So, Professor Polastri...” She pauses, then lets the pause linger a little longer.

“Oh, call me Eve!” her date finally remembers to suggest. She smiles pleasantly in return.

“Of course. Eve,” she begins slowly, letting the syllable simmer in her tongue and be filled with heat. The effect it has on _Eve_ is subtle but immediate. “Do you think you can help me?”

“I hope so!” Eve offers a little too cheerily.

“Yes, we wouldn’t want to disappoint your husband.” Oksana smiles like she’s teasing a co-worker on their office romance, one of those smiles people give when they’re saying something funny, not because they’re amused but because you can’t really say something funny without smiling. Otherwise, it’s just sarcasm. “Tell me more about him.”

“About Niko?” Eve looks up from her drink, brows knitting together. “I thought we were here to talk about you.” She chuckles a little to smoothen any edge to her words, but it’s still very much a metaphorical pointed glance at her watch. A reminder that she’s taken time out of her evening to discuss one topic and she’d rather get on with it. Rude.

Oksana fiddles with her glass. Oh, she’s just so nervous, it’s just so personal, after all. “Yes, I know, but... Maybe we could build up to it?”

“Losing your nerve?”

She considers pouting and nodding, but it might be a bit much. She tilts her head instead, looking off guiltily.

“Alright,” Eve concedes easily. “Let’s start with Niko.”

Half an hour later, Eve is on her second glass of gin and tonic, excitedly finishing some “funny” story about a chicken she apparently owns. Oksana has subtly slid around the table until they are sitting side by side, and she leans closer just as Eve finishes her story, resting her hand on her arm as she lets out a peal of laughter.

It’s impressive how easily people will show their cards. It’s like they don’t even know they’re doing it. But one anecdote here, one off-hand comment there, one story about chickens, and Eve’s entire life seems sketched out in front of Oksana’s eyes. Average job and house and husband, all of it just acceptable enough not to be actively disappointing, though she’d never admit it. Typical suburban couple, no kids, rotating dinner with friends (ugh), boring average life. A little bored of it herself—of course she is. How not to be?—, but has never stepped out of line before, aside from the occasional harmless transgression.

There is real potential here. Eve isn’t one of those idiots who are mindlessly happy in their routine, which means that she’ll welcome something to shake things up. On the other hand, she is deeply entrenched in the status quo by now. She won’t take kindly to being pushed out, so once again, she’ll have to believe that she’s the one making the decision.

Naive student with an irresistible draw to her off-limits professor, then? Play up the “never done this before” angle, suggest heavily but leave the actual wording of it up to Eve.

Her hand still on Eve’s arm, she brushes it gently with her thumb, then seems to come to her senses and pulls away. She offers a shy smile, a gaze that lingers on Eve a few seconds too long, as though unable to tear itself away.

This would all be a lot easier to pull off if Eve weren’t wearing that ridiculously scruffy outfit.

“Has anyone ever told you you are a wonderful speaker? In class as well,” she quickly adds, as though embarrassed of being so forward. If Eve is offended, by any of it, she doesn’t act it. Oksana brings her glass to her mouth and tips it, just enough to wet her lips, then locks eyes with Eve again, uncertain but eager.

“Well, it’s the first time I hear it right after I tell my chicken story,” Eve returns diplomatically, a hint of amusement tinting her voice. Does she not catch up on the attraction that Oksana is broadcasting? How obvious does she really have to be? Have some self-confidence, Eve.

“It’s not about the story, it’s... the emotion in your voice. You make everything feel so alive.” Oksana’s hand returns to Eve’s arm, rests there comfortably. Her voice is softer, forcing Eve to lean in to catch the words, and she watches as the woman’s breath seems to hold at the last word, to escape her as slowly as the syllables escape Oksana’s lips.

“Oksana...” It’s a warning. It’s Eve balancing on the edge of escaping. Oksana thinks quickly and settles for a good offence.

“Do you have to go?” she asks in a desperate whisper. _Back to your home, back to your husband_ , the words go unsaid. “Can you stay a little longer?” Her fingers on Eve’s arm curl, no longer simply resting on it but following its curve, tracing its lines.

“It’s getting late.” It’s a whisper as well, and Eve is still so close, and it sounds much more like a vague statement than an expression of any kind of intent.

“It is.” She leans closer still, until the dark of Eve’s eyes becomes a distinct mix of shades, reflecting the lights around them.

“I’m your teacher,” Eve breathes out, and finally she actually acknowledges it. Good. Now Oksana can acknowledge it too.

“I know we shouldn’t. But I still want it, I can’t help it. I can’t help myself.”

A hand settles on her cheek, tilts her face up until their lips are aligned, inches apart. Eve’s eyes bear down on her, lit with a delicious intensity.

“Bullshit.”

She freezes. Eve’s grip loosens and Oksana pulls back at once, suddenly lost.

“Excuse me?”

“Bullshit. You’re feeding me bullshit.” Eve leans back as well, taking a smug drag of her own drink. “Playing the doe-eyed naive. Why did you do that? You think that’s what I want?”

“It is,” she spits back, all the anger that she smoothed down returning in full force. This pathetic, boring, vanilla woman, who wants someone just as vanilla to gently escort her to infidelity, but she won’t even have the self-respect to accept the fantasy when it’s offered to her.

“And so you lie?” Eve scoffs, so gallant up there on her high horse. “You know what? I think it’s true, that you have trouble finding yourself. But I don’t think it bothers you. It’s what you want. You’re perfectly happy being exactly what you think others want.”

She’s barely done with her speech as she gets up, gathering up her things. For one very unexpected second, Oksana is struck speechless. Then the anger takes over again and she stands up as well, chair scraping loudly across the floor.

“Fuck you, then. Go have shitty missionary sex with your husband.”

She is out the door far ahead of Eve, hands balled up into tight fists. She thinks she can see right through Oksana, does she? Well, they’ll see about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first killing eve multichapter! Updates every saturday, with possible exceptions for life stuff happening.
> 
> Come check me out on twitter @evesaxe ^^


	2. Just a little warning poke

The weekend is probably one of the oddest in Eve’s life. She sits there, watching whatever’s on TV without paying any real attention, Niko’s arm holding her against his side, and she keeps replaying that night’s events.

Oksana Astankova tried to get into her pants. Her super rich, super fashionable, super Russian, super attractive—objectively speaking, not that Eve was actually interested, or focused on it really, she’s _married_ — , super young student tried to get into her pants. And she did so by playing up some weird student-teacher fantasy—okay, yes, they _are_ student and teacher, but it was more like the innocent-experienced dynamic, which Eve really doubts is true, because it hinges on someone that looks like Oksana and acts like Oksana not being plenty experienced and oh, you get the point.

But why go to all that trouble? Why put up such an act?

It was a good one, too. Maybe it was the two gin and tonics speaking, but despite knowing very well what Oksana is like, Eve was genuinely convinced for a second. Like maybe all that bravado was just a front somehow. She proved that theory wrong pretty quickly, but still. Creepy. Like Oksana is some manipulative mastermind.

“Eve? Did you fall asleep?”

Niko’s voice startles her and she nearly headbutts his chin as she returns to Earth.

“Uh, no, just... Just thinking.”

“Oh really? About what?” His voice is teasing, like he doesn’t quite believe her, and her mind goes entirely blank as she tries to come up with something other than _how my student tried to shag me_.

“Oh, you know...” she delays. He hums in response, sounding amused, and she weighs her options. “Okay, fine, maybe I did fall asleep. For a minute.”

“A minute.”

“Mmhmm.”

“So how did that last movie end?”

She’s shocked again as she finally focuses on the screen and suddenly sees an entirely different cast on an entirely different set.

“It ended already?”

Niko laughs, ignoring her half-hearted swat at his chest. “A minute, my arse. More like 30.” She gets up, evading his protective arm, and rolls her eyes at him. He laughs again. “Do you even want dinner any more, or is it straight to bed with you?”

“ _Straight to bed_? Got some plans there, mister?”

Niko throws up his hands innocently. “The only plan is to take loving care of my sleepy wife.” His hands slowly lower. “Out of curiosity... How sleepy, exactly?”

“I don’t know, that nap was pretty refreshing.” She leans closer again, a mischievous smile growing on her lips. “And, also out of curiosity, how hungry are you?”

“Dinner can wait,” he immediately replies.

They do it missionary style. And Oksana’s parting remark plays through Eve’s mind the entire time.

(...)

Oksana is sulking.

Maybe it’s because Eve has spent the whole weekend anticipating it, but meeting Oksana again is... underwhelming.

She isn’t sure what she expected, now that she thinks about it. It’s like in their time apart, Eve’s image of Oksana crystallised as some sinister manipulator. And now they’re face to face and Oksana is clearly the same as she always was: a smug college student, who got rejected by what she thought was an easy target and is now sulking about it. A bit immature, really.

She barely speaks up in class, although she mutters a few comments that the students closest to her really seem to enjoy. When she does answer a question, it’s in a childishly sarcastic tone, and Eve swears she caught her rolling her eyes at her one time.

She swallows down her annoyance at the behaviour, reminding herself that the girl is very young, and her student, and this is better than the alternative, anyway. The scary, controlling Oksana that Eve’s mind temporarily conjured up would have been much harder to handle.

She watches the students file out of class and takes one calming breath before calling out, “Oksana, can I see you a moment?”

The girl strolls up to her, body language as reluctant as possible without actually dragging her feet along the floor.

“Yes, Professor Polastri?” she asks, sardonically polite.

“About your e-mail,” Eve begins, ignoring the way Oksana shifts her weight and actually crosses her arms. “I know things got a bit... derailed last time, but I still want to help you raise that grade, if you need it.”

Oksana’s brow raises slowly, petulantly. “I’m good.”

Eve could give up. She’s given her a fair chance, and God knows this is around the point she’d give up with any other student. But something about Oksana makes her want to try. Try to help, just a little more.

“I’m sorry for the way I reacted, okay? You just caught me by surprise, I mean, the way you behaved was completely inappropriate and-”

“Oh, it’s fine. Like you said, it was all fake anyway.” Oksana’s voice drips with sarcasm and accusation and Eve has to suppress a sigh at the drama of it all.

“I can see that my words were hurtful. I’m sorry about that. It was an overreaction.”

“I don’t care.”

It is abundantly clear that Oksana does care, and she is being as subtle about it as a 5-year old whose favourite toy just got taken away.

“Okay then. Good. Then if you want to pick up the discussion somewhere a little more... illuminated. And school-appropriate. You can meet me during office hours and we’ll-”

“Not interested. I’ll take the B.”

Oksana is being impossible and very very frustrating and acting so much like a spoiled brat. And somehow it doesn’t make Eve want to help her any less. She just seems... unhappy. If a comment like that from a virtual stranger can hit her this hard, how desperately must she be craving approval?

(...)

Later that day, Eve curls up on the sofa with a glass of red wine and mulls over the day’s events. Niko is across the room, chopping up vegetables for dinner and sending the occasional word her way.

She twirls the glass in her hand before taking another sip.

Does Oksana want her to help? If she didn’t care about her opinion at all, then she wouldn’t have been so bothered by what happened at the bar, right? Deep down, she must actually care about her.

About _it_.

About Eve as a teacher and authority figure and person who sees beyond her surface.

Anyway.

Does Eve want to subject herself to that, regardless? So far, Oksana has swung between rude, sarcastically polite—which is just another form of rude, technically—, and manipulative and seductive. None of these are attitudes Eve wants to subject herself to, and she has a feeling that-

“Eve.”

Oh, Niko is calling her. And not for the first time, by the sound of it.

“Yes?” she asks, trying her best not to be too visibly startled out of her own thoughts.

“Have you paid attention to anything I’ve said in the past ten minutes?” He sounds more amused than bothered, but he does tend to hide how hurt he gets at her distractions.

“Yes?”

The very audible question mark isn’t particularly convincing.

“So what was I talking about?”

“Field trip,” she replies at once. Go big or go home.

“Wow.” He sounds impressed. Did she actually get it right? “You sounded so confident, I would have been utterly convinced if you hadn’t guessed completely wrong.”

She’s already rifling through excuses in her head, but Niko smiles and stops his preparations to pick up the bottle of wine and head her way. He takes her glass and refills it.

“Go on, then. What’s on your mind?”

“But you were talking about your thing,” she protests weakly.

“My thing is done. Tell me about yours.”

“Well, what was it about?”

“Field trip,” he replies with an ironic smile.

She should try to do some damage control, but she really does want to talk about it, and she knows Niko will have good advice.

“Okay, fine,” she gives in. Niko returns the bottle to its place and goes back to chopping without further comment. “It’s about work. I have this... I don’t know, problem student?”

“Causing trouble in class?”

“No, nothing like that, she-”

“She?”

“Yes?”

“Sorry, nothing. It’s just, boys tend to be more disruptive.”

“That’s the thing, she isn’t disruptive. She’s great in class, a straight-A student, does all her readings.” Eve pauses to take a sip of her wine as she collects her thoughts. “But she just doesn’t seem to be connecting with the texts.”

“Well, you know kids. She probably doesn’t care about a bunch of _old, boring books_.”

“Projecting much?” she asks with a chuckle, before taking another drink.

“Not at all, I love old boring books,” Niko replies without hesitation, smiling playfully in her direction. She snorts.

“Anyway, I tried to help her and she kind of blew me off. You remember, it’s the girl you talked me into meeting after hours the other day.”

Niko nods in acknowledgement. She kept things deliberately vague at the time, not wanting to get into a drawn-out explanation of why exactly Oksana hit on her and why it clearly wasn’t even about her at all. Luckily Niko was half-asleep on the sofa by the time she got home and didn’t press much.

“And then I might have been a little... harsh with her, so now she’s being a brat about it, which must mean I hit a nerve, right?”

Niko nods slowly. He seems a little confused. Maybe she kept things _too_ vague.

“She just seems really closed off and guarded, you know? Plus she’s from abroad, so she probably doesn’t have much of a support network here. Do I- Am I just sounding crazy?”

“You sound like you want to help this girl even though she’s annoying,” Niko offers gently, before adding, “Which yes, is a little crazy by your standards.”

“Hey! I care about my students.”

He laughs. “Yes you do, in your own, slightly misanthropic way.” She opens her mouth to protest, but he beats her to it. “I like it. Makes me feel special. I might get jealous if you started being nice to everyone.”

“Are you jealous of _her_?” Eve asks, and it’s supposed to be teasing and match his playful tone, but it sounds off to her. If Niko notices it, he doesn’t seem to react at all.

“I think we can find a better target of jealousy than your 20-year old female student.”

“Like who?”

“Bill,” Niko offers casually, but a little too quickly.

“Seriously? I’ve told you, it would be like kissing my brother. Plus he’s got a hot young wife, what does he want with me?”

“You’re hot too, you know?”

“But not young?”

“I, uh... Oh, I hate when you do that,” he claims unconvincingly as Eve’s serious facade cracks and she smirks at his distress.

Satisfied that he doesn’t need to dig himself out of this hole, he turns his full attention to his cooking, stirring and seasoning as Eve lets herself sink back into her own thoughts. She only snaps out of it when Niko comes closer, sitting on the armrest of the sofa as he waits for the food to be ready.

“It’s not really my style though, is it?” she asks as she sets down her empty glass. “Babysitting my students.”

“No, I can’t say it is,” he admits good-naturedly. She smiles despite herself. “But that must mean that she’s really gotten to you, right?”

He pauses to let the words linger. For some reason, Eve wants to insist that he’s wrong, but she doesn’t think she really could.

Niko must catch the way she frowns because he carries on, reassuring. “It’s good.”

He leans down to kiss her on the lips, gentle and chaste. Eve lets herself get lost in the sensation and forget her musings for a second.

“It’s normal to care, Eve. It’s a good sign. Means I didn’t marry a psychopath.”

He laughs. She joins in.

“Fine, what the hell, I’ll do it.”

“That’s my girl.”

(...)

Eve is nervous before class, which is something she hasn’t experienced in a couple of years. When Oksana’s eyes meet hers, carrying the same hurt distance she’s been showing all week, Eve feels her nerves grow just a little, anticipating the task ahead: how the hell is she going to get Oksana to spend any time around her, after last time?

The hour and a half seems to fly by and soon the students are streaming out of the room as Eve calls Oksana to her desk once again. The girl looks as sullen as ever, an eyebrow raised in silent questioning.

“So... Oksana. How are things going with class? Changed your mind about me helping you out?”

A pause, where Oksana seems to be measuring her up. “No,” she eventually drawls out, slow and unimpressed.

Eve realizes she has absolutely no plan and was kind of hoping asking again would just work straight away. She really isn’t used to appeasing students.

“And… with class?”

“Good,” Oksana remarks neutrally, barely qualifying as a sentence. Eve just stares at her for a while, because she can’t think of what to say next. Oksana stares back. “Great,” she finally complements after the pause has long become awkward.

“Look, I feel really bad about what I said, can I make it up to you?” Oksana’s neutrally displeased expressions shifts a little towards defensive. It’s progress, kind of. “It doesn’t have to be school stuff, it can be… I can buy you ice cream? If you want?”

“Ice cream.” Oksana has an uncanny ability to make anything you say sound ridiculous just by repeating it. To be fair, the ice cream suggestion doesn’t need much help. Eve isn’t good at coming up with things that 20-year olds enjoy that wouldn’t be a bit inappropriate for her to do with them.

“Something like that. I’m open to some brainstorming.”

“No. Ice cream is alright. But I have class now.” Oksana tugs on the strap of her bag, as if reinforcing her point. Now she doesn’t look defensive so much as slightly ill at ease, unsure, but definitely more open than before. More progress?

“Right, okay. Well, you know where to find me.”

“Not really.”

“Oh. My office. Just come by there whenever.”

“Okay.”

Oksana leaves without another word, not even to mention when her classes end.

She shows up 2 hours later, knocking on the door of Eve’s office although it’s wide open. Eve offers her a polite smile of acknowledgement as she puts away her papers and grabs her bag. Oksana doesn’t return it, only watches her preparations silently.

Eve brings them to the nearest park, still a bit unsure about what to do. She makes awkward conversation, skimming over casual topics as Oksana barely contributes, more focused on licking her way around her ice cream cone.

“You are trying really hard, huh?” she finally says, sounding amused.

“Oh, can you tell?” Eve replies with a hint of sarcasm. They both stop for a moment, letting the mood settle, then she laughs. Oksana does too, unexpectedly.

“You are treating me like a new stepdaughter you suddenly realized you should have an actual relationship with.”

“So I’m a wicked stepmother now?”

“Not really. All my stepmothers were much younger than you.” She says it in a way that isn’t entirely nice and suddenly, despite being so focused on how 20-year olds are a world away from herself, Eve is a bit offended at being considered old.

She ignores the jab and picks up on the topic. “Did you have many?”

“A few.” Oksana stops again, diverts her attention from her ice cream. “I understand why you got upset, nobody likes finding out they’re being lied to. It was my fault for not getting the act right. You don’t have to make up for it and try to be my _friend_ or something.”

“Oksana, my problem isn’t that your lie wasn’t good enough. I was upset _because_ you lied. Acted like someone else just to get what you wanted.”

Oksana scoffs at that, a gesture that her whole body carries. She shrugs a little, looks to the side, like the mere suggestion is beyond ridiculous. “Everybody wants to be lied to, Eve. They don’t want to know that it’s a lie, that it’s an act, but they do want it. More than they could ever want anything real.”

“Is that- Do you think everybody does that? Lies to fulfil expectations?”

“If they’re good enough to get away with it, sure.” Oksana is back to her ice cream, apparently not very affected by the conversation. Eve, on the other hand, feels a cold trickle run over her thumb as she realizes she hasn’t paid attention to her cone in a while. She wipes it off carelessly. “Not many people are.”

“And the real you? Wouldn’t people ever want that?”

“Not in my personal experience. Are you going to finish that?” She has just finished chewing on the last of her cone and looks expectantly at Eve’s. She studies her own ice cream, not really invested, and finally gives it up with a shrug. Oksana gets to work on it right away, no longer interested in talking.

Eve walks alongside her a few moments more, until she polishes off the second ice cream, wipes her hands clumsily on a paper napkin and walks off with a quick goodbye.

Oksana just keeps getting stranger and stranger. Who would admit, so freely and without any visible emotion, that they think they’re fundamentally unlovable? Has she really come to a point where that doesn’t even faze her any more?

Eve sits on a nearby bench and watches the girl as she walks off towards a sleek black car, steps into the back seat. She’s willing to bet it’s not an Uber.

She has no idea what the real Oksana is like. She has a feeling it wouldn’t be very easy to find her, under all the layers of pretending and straight-up bluffing. She wants to follow Niko’s encouragement, help the girl open up a bit, but she can’t even begin to imagine how. Would the ice cream thing work again? And how long can she keep carrying both ends of the conversation before she has to admit defeat?

She sighs, deeply. Oksana is a headache.

She kind of wishes she still had her ice cream. Suddenly, she’s really in the mood for one.

(...)

“I cannot _believe_ you wanted to split a dessert.”

“ _I_ can’t believe you tried to stab my hand with the fork.”

“Get your own dessert.”

“You are a very scary woman sometimes.”

“Oh, come on. I wasn’t _really_ going to stab you. Just a little warning poke.” Eve bumps into Niko to punctuate her words and he laughs, tightening his arm around her for balance. “Dinner was nice.”

“It was. We should do it more often.”

“We should.”

They walk along, taking advantage of the mild night to take a stroll through the bustling streets, work off some of the alcohol in their system before hailing a cab. Niko’s coat rests on Eve’s shoulders, left bare by the form-fitting dress she is wearing. It’s a rare change from her usual clothes, but it’s not like she often has an excuse to dress up.

“Name the date, I’ll free up my schedule.”

“Liar,” she teases, poking his chest. “You men are all the same, you make big promises but the second you find yourselves with a nice pile of homework to grade, it’s ‘Eve who?’”

“What can I say? It’s hard to match up to the raw appeal of _maths.”_ He draws out the word sensually, right by her ear, and it draws another peal of laughter out of her.

“Not even in this dress?”

Niko pauses to admire it, an eyebrow raising as he does. “If Euclid had seen you in that dress, we wouldn’t know shit about geometry.”

“And they say men of science can’t be romantic,” Eve comments playfully, aiming a seductive smirk his way.

They walk on, the street they are crossing lined on both sides with rows of bars. Through the large glass windows, Eve studies the people inside. Couples, groups of young people, a few businessmen and women having a drink after work.

“Recognize someone?” Niko asks, as her gaze lingers for longer and longer on a strangely familiar blonde head. Whoever it is, she’s sitting alone with a young man who seems to be excitedly taking over the conversation. Eve keeps looking as she gets up, leaving her things with the man, and steps outside for some air.

“It’s Oksana,” she remembers to reply, once recognition hits her. “The problem student,” she adds, although she isn’t sure the description quite fits the girl.

“What a coincidence! Do you want to go say hi?”

“Is it weird?” Eve is still staring at Oksana, it’s like she can’t help it. Her hair is carefully styled, her make-up light but sharp, and she wears a colorful suit, although she’s left the jacket by her chair and steps outside in only a slightly see-through shirt. Oksana turns and looks straight at her, eyes lighting up as she identifies the staring woman.

“Professor Polastri!” she enunciates across the distance that still separates them, the words always imbued with a formality that somehow mocks itself. “And Niko!” she adds with a growing smile, raising her hand to wave at the couple.

Eve waves back, feeling supremely awkward as she does so. By her side, Niko chuckles covertly.

“I think she’s a bit, um, plastered,” he comments in a low voice just as Oksana reaches out to balance herself on a post.

“Oksana,” Eve calls back, elbowing Niko discreetly to make sure he doesn’t misbehave. “Are you out with friends?”

“Oh, no, it’s just me.” She turns around for a moment, catches the eye of the man currently guarding her jacket. “And, uh… him,” she completes after a moment’s hesitation, like she can’t remember the man’s name. “He bought me a few drinks. What about you, Eve? Can I call you Eve?” She throws a furtive glance at Niko, a subtle reference at their evening together that sends a jolt of unjustified panic through Eve.

“Sure,” she quickly cuts in before the girl decides to carry on. “Niko and I are just on our way home after dinner.”

“Oh, dinner! That sounds good.”

“Yes, it was nice,” Niko contributes, still looking a bit too amused.

“I’m sure,” Oksana replies seriously, nodding along. Her eyes wander between Eve and Niko, never settling on either for too long.

A beat of silence follows, as Eve focuses more on the fact that Oksana is drunk and alone with a strange man than on continuing the conversation. Without her intervention, Niko and Oksana watch each other wordlessly, Oksana swaying every once in a while.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” the girl eventually adds, polite smile widening. “It would be rude to keep my friend waiting too long. And I will already have to be rude by asking his name again. I think it starts with an N,” she confides, squinting slightly.

Niko reaches for Eve’s hand, ready enough to continue on their walk, but she stands her ground. She leans closer to him to say in a low voice, “Maybe I should stay with her, try to keep her from trouble.”

Oksana is still watching them. When Niko turns from Eve to study her, she offers another bright smile.

“Do you think she’ll get in trouble?”

“She’s drunk alone with some guy she doesn’t know.”

“People do choose to do that sometimes,” he points out. He’s right, of course. Oksana probably isn’t even the only one doing it at this very bar.

“Just five minutes. Just to see what he’s like.”

Niko sighs, like he already knows it won’t be five minutes, and shifts on his feet.

“You can go on home, I’ll meet you there.” He looks like he wants to protest, but rethinks it just as a taxi passes by them, raising his arm to hail it. The car stops by their side and Niko stands motionless for a moment. “Or you can stay with us. I’m not kicking you out or anything.”

“No, I just, my wallet is in my coat pocket. And my phone. And my keys.”

“Right, sorry.” She shrugs it off, ignoring the way the cool breeze hits her shoulders and quickly steals all their warmth, and hands it over.

“You won’t get cold?”

“No, I’ll be in the bar and from there straight home. It’s fine, take it.”

Oksana watches their exchange wordlessly, still leaning on the post. Inside the bar, her date studies the three of them with the uncertain looks of someone who is wondering whether he should go introduce himself.

Niko leans in for a kiss, which Eve returns a bit awkwardly. “Okay, see you at home. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“You’re staying?” Oksana asks as soon as the taxi speeds off. She sounds a mix of curious and amused.

“You’re drunk.”

“Have been before,” she replies without missing a beat. Her amusement grows.

“Can we go inside? It’s cold.”

“Sure.”

They walk into the bar and return to Oksana’s table, where the young man offers her an excited smile and Eve a slightly confused one.

“Hello, Julie. Is everything alright?” Julie? Eve throws Oksana a look, which she returns shamelessly.

“Yes. This is my friend.” Oksana provides no details, only reaches for her drink and sips from the crazy straw protruding from it.

“Eve,” Eve adds for her.

The man gets up and offers an enthusiastic hand. Eve shakes it. “Nice to meet you, I am Sebastian.” He has an accent too, something that Eve can’t immediately place. Spanish, maybe French? An exchange student, or maybe just a tourist.

“ _Ends_ with an N,” Oksana declares happily at his introduction, proud of her powers of recollection, and further confuses the poor man. “Sebastian, can you get Eve a gin and tonic?”

He gets up obligingly and goes off towards the bar, leaving the two women alone.

“Julie?” Eve finally asks, not sure whether she’s shocked or just amused.

“What? I’m not giving him my _real_ name.”

Oksana takes another sip. The liquid travels slowly through the roller-coaster that forms the path of the straw, colouring it in as it goes.

“Are you even interested in him?”

“Why? Are you jealous?” She raises a brow, lips quirking into an annoying smug grin. Eve rolls her eyes.

“I just don’t understand why you’re wasting your time.”

She points out the colourful cocktail in her hand. “Free drinks?”

“You’re rich.”

Oksana sighs and leans back in her chair, posture artfully careless, like she’s posing. “This is what young people do, Eve. You know, when we don’t have husbands and suburban homes and bedtimes.” Her tone is bitter underneath the sarcasm, once more guarded to protect some hurt she doesn’t want people poking at. Like some part of her wishes for it all, the stability and routine.

Eve ignores the comment. “Do you want him to stay?” she asks simply.

“I want _you_ to stay.”

God, this girl really says the most brazen things. “You’re drunk.”

“So you keep saying. Will you sit down?”

Eve realizes she can’t stand awkwardly by Oksana’s chair forever and grudgingly accepts the seat previously occupied by Sebastian, which Oksana offers with a wave of her hand.

“If I get rid of him, will you go home and sleep this off?”

“Fine,” Oksana whines out childishly. She takes another sip. Where did she even get the crazy straw? Everybody else has normal ones.

Sebastian returns quickly, with the promised drink, and starts looking around for a new chair.

“So, Sebastian, thank you so much for keeping… _Julie_ company. But I think maybe it’s about time I get her home,” Eve says diplomatically. He looks between the two of them with a strange look on his face. “I’m her aunt,” she quickly adds before any misunderstanding arises. Which it shouldn’t. He just saw her kissing her husband, obviously she wouldn’t be “taking her home”.

He keeps looking between them, very surprised at the news. His eyes swing between Oksana’s and Eve’s hair, then Oksana’s and Eve’s eyes, then-

“By marriage. Aunt by marriage. My husband’s...”

“Oh! Right, of course! I will leave you with your aunt, then. And I will... call you later?” He addresses this at Oksana, who smiles and nods.

“Can’t wait!” She waits until he is off, then leans closer to Eve. “I didn’t give him my _real_ number,” she states with a dismissive shake of her head. Eve tries her best not to laugh, because that would set a bad example.

They end up staying at the bar, because Eve has just been handed a gin and tonic that she can’t bear to go to waste. She drinks it as quickly as she can without getting herself drunk, some part of her absently wondering if Niko will get mad at her delay. Hopefully he’ll be asleep by the time she gets home.

She tries to make some small talk, but Oksana, drunk as she may be, is impressively skilled at evading or deflecting all questions, until Eve is the one feeling like her brain is getting a little foggy. Every time, she finds herself answering the very questions she posed, and talking about how she ended up in London, what her family was like, what she was out doing tonight.

By the time they leave, Eve welcomes the cool outside air and the way it hits her heated cheeks and sobers her up. She turns to Oksana, impeccable in her tailored outfit, and waits for her to take the lead. Is her ride waiting somewhere, like usual?

“I live nearby,” she says, like she has guessed Eve’s thoughts. “I was going to walk.”

“Oh. I’ll walk with you.”

“I can get you a taxi,” Oksana offers, eyes already scanning the street.

“No, you shouldn’t be out alone at night anyway.”

“I can take care of myself.”

She says it with her usual bravado, body seeming to puff up to occupy twice as much space as it reasonably should. Somehow, standing at 5’8”, Oksana seems taller than everyone around her. Some part of Eve believes her words without question, sure that her aura alone could keep any danger away.

But another part of her wonders what must have happened to make Oksana this way. To make her someone who claims something like that so easily, who clearly has grown to do just that. Always take care of herself, by herself.

“I could use the fresh air,” she comments, instead of insisting directly.

“Are you seriously drunk off one gin and tonic? Is this what age does to people?”

“I had wine at dinner,” Eve offers in her defence. Oksana laughs, then begins to walk off, as much invitation as she’s likely to give.

“You look nice, by the way,” she throws behind her as she walks.

“Uh, thanks. You too.”

“Yes, but I always look nice.”

She slows down, because Eve is lagging behind, unable to match her long strides, then sends a glance over her shoulder to study her and slows down further, until they are walking side by side. She takes off her jacket in one fluid movement and holds it out.

“What are you doing?”

“You look cold.” Oksana herself is in nothing but that sheer shirt, a hint of bra showing underneath.

“That shirt doesn’t exactly look warm,” Eve stalls, although the jacket does look inviting.

“It does have sleeves, so,” Oksana points out, nodding at Eve’s bare arms. She has a point.

“Okay, fine.” She drapes the jacket over her shoulders, not bothering to actually wear it. It’s still warm from its previous owner, quickly soothing the goosebumps on her arms. “Thank you,” she remembers to add after a moment

Oksana picks up the pace again and Eve rushes to keep up. Does she not know how to stroll? She walks like every moment spent getting somewhere is a moment wasted.

“This is a nice place to live,” Eve says in an attempt to break the silence that has settled between them. “Very central.”

Oksana hums. “Just a few streets away, now.”

“Right, right.”

Another lull in the conversation. Oksana crosses the street just as the light turns red and Eve sprints to get ahead of the cars already speeding her way.

“Must be expensive, though.” Oksana turns to glance at her, her face doing a good job of communicating how little that is a problem for her. “Do you share the place? Any roommates?” Eve carries on, like she didn’t pick up on it.

“Just me.” Maybe it’s good that Oksana isn’t chatty. Eve isn’t sure she has the breath to spare on lively conversation, not while they’re racing across London. “Sometimes Konstantin comes to visit.”

“Oh, friend from Russia?”

“He was a friend of my father’s.”

“Was?” Eve gasps out, and silently thanks the universe as Oksana slows down a bit and glances at her again.

“My father died a few years ago.”

Eve retracts the thanks.

“I’m so sorry!” Some horrible instinct possesses her before she can stop herself and she follows up with, “And… your mother?”

“A long time ago,” Oksana replies, as expected. Eve isn’t sure how to respond to this explosive information, after the girl has done nothing but evade all personal questions. Couldn’t they build up to this? Maybe start with favourite bands, before moving straight to childhood traumas. “Hence the stepmothers.”

“Then...”

“That’s right, Eve, I am an orphan. So you should be extra nice to me.”

That one almost makes her laugh and wow, what kind of a person is she to be laughing at the orphan?

To be fair, the orphan is really annoying. And probably sprung this on Eve just to make her squirm. And what kind of person holds their status as an orphan over people’s heads?

Okay, no, Eve is probably the one in the wrong here. But Oksana is still annoying. And she has some nerve, to claim Eve should treat her nicely. That’s all she’s been trying to do!

“I’m trying to be, but you keep blowing me off.”

“This is you being extra nice?” Oksana seems shocked at the possibility. She pauses in the middle of the street and Eve narrowly avoids bumping into her, until she reaches out her arms to steady her. “What are you usually like?”

Eve’s thought process circumvents snarky retorts and goes straight to honesty. “I tried to stab my husband with a fork tonight.”

“Ooh, I think I like regular Eve better.”

“Shut up,” she says without any real force. Oksana smiles, genuine and disarming, and some part of Eve knows that it’s probably part of her act, but she’s drunk and it’s late and who knows? Maybe the real Oksana is peeking out, just a little.

Eve can already tell this game is going to drive her crazy.

“Okay.”

She gazes blankly at Oksana. They are still standing in the middle of the street, the other pedestrians making their grumbling way around them. “Okay?”

“Okay, you can be extra nice. I’ll try not to blow you off. Maybe we can meet again, for another drink?” There is a playful glint in Oksana’s eyes that tells Eve her offer is more teasing than serious. For a moment, she entertains accepting it, just to surprise her.

“No. No more drinking.” Look at her, being responsible. Niko would be proud. Except Niko can never know about that evening in the first place. Oksana deflates into a pout, but doesn’t protest. “But you can come to my office. I’ll buy you another ice cream, if you want, or something from the vending machine.”

Oksana mulls it over. “Do you have lollipops?”

“No? Why would I?”

“Doctors always have lollipops in their offices.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s just pediatricians.”

“And at the bank, they have bowls of candy.”

Well, she’s certainly persistent.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Oksana pumps her fist in the air, a tiny motion that is cutely at odds with her pristine and composed attire. “But then you have to promise to eat the stuff, because I’m not a fan.”

“Yes, you are. You have a sweet tooth, I can tell.” She leans closer, as if scrutinizing Eve for her true opinion on candy, and Eve shoos her away with one arm.

“Why are we just standing here?” she changes the topic quickly, uncomfortable with the way Oksana seems intent on inspecting her.

Oksana shrugs, points a finger at the building in front of them. “I live here.”

“Oh. Right. I should find a cab, then.” She turns back to the street, grabbing the jacket to keep it from slipping. The jacket. “And, uh, this is yours. Thanks again.”

“No problem, it suits you. I’d tell you to keep it but...” She lets the pause settle as Eve wonders what terribly inappropriate thing she’ll go for. She makes a little face. “It’s pretty expensive. And you look like you get sauce on your clothes _really_ easily.”

Eve slips off the jacket and shoves it in Oksana’s arms. “Asshole,” she mutters.

“Thanks,” the girl replies in a sing-song. She raises an arm at just the right moment to have a taxi sliding to an easy stop in front of Eve. “I will see you in class. Let me know when you get that candy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the heterosexuality :p Oksana will pop up more as the story goes on, don't worry eheh
> 
> Come check me out on twitter @evesaxe ^^


	3. Never too late to disappoint

Oksana is a child.

Not in the “I am getting hit on by someone who is young enough to be my daughter” sense, but more in the “How has an adult attending college and living on her own not yet mastered the skill of chewing with her mouth closed?” sense.

True to her word, Oksana does not deign to step foot inside Eve’s office until she is assured that candy will be waiting for her inside.

Then, when she finally shows up, she does not sit down for a second. Eve eventually gives up on trying to make conversation and settles down to work while the girl makes her slow way around the room, pulling out books at random from the shelves that line it, leafing through them and putting them back with a few unimpressed noises. She alternates this activity with shuffling through the boxes Eve keeps at the back, filled with old papers, discarded applications, and all sorts of documents Eve printed, read once and then promptly forgot about. She also makes unimpressed noises about these.

All the while, she cradles the bowl of candy Eve acquired to her chest, constantly popping them into her mouth and noisily crunching down on them.

After around an hour, she returns the bowl—half empty—to Eve’s desk and leaves with nothing but a “This was fun. See you later.”

The second time she visits, she has much less to inspect. She does run her eyes through all the new papers that have found their way to Eve’s desk in the meantime, but that source of entertainment runs out quickly. Then she sits across from Eve, perfectly content to be silent and just watch as she types up an e-mail, rapidly growing unfocused under the scrutiny.

Eve gives up on the e-mail on her third attempt at finishing the same paragraph, finding herself once again grasping to remember where she was going with her sentence. She lets her hands slide back from the keyboard and onto the desk and asks Oksana about her classes.

Her classes are going well.

Eve begins to feel a bit annoyed, because she knows that Oksana is capable of making conversation if she wants to, so she’s clearly being intentionally difficult yet again.

She asks about Konstantin. It’s one of the few things that Eve knows about Oksana’s personal life, aside from the whole orphan thing, which she should probably not throw at her so soon. Oksana sits up straight but doesn’t answer.

Instead, she says, “You know, I probably would have slept with that guy if you hadn’t sent him away.”

Eve doesn’t so much blink as close her eyes, like keeping Oksana’s face out of her line of sight will somehow also erase that comment from her mind, and the growing annoyance at the girl, and frustration at herself, for… She isn’t sure what for. A lot of things, surely.

“I didn’t make you come here,” she points out. Oksana nods, waiting to see where she goes with this. “I suggested it, and you accepted. And you said you wouldn’t be a dick about it.”

“I said I wouldn’t blow you off,” Oksana corrects, like that makes all the difference.

“Well, you are.”

The girl picks up a piece of candy, the stock already dangerously low, and pops it into her mouth. Then, sliding down the chair to sit with the worst posture Eve has ever seen, she looks off towards nowhere in particular.

“It’s not on purpose. It’s kind of an instinct at this point.”

That’s her version of an apology. Eve has realized by now that she never actually says the words, that something like this is as close as she gets. It’s not a very charming character trait.

“Konstantin is fine. Annoying.”

And then she gives you something, a glimpse of vulnerability, a way in, and so you let the lack of apology slide. Really, not charming at all.

“He probably just worries about you.”

But it does work.

Oksana’s face scrunches up as if disgruntled at the comment. “He worries in an annoying way, then.”

“I suspect all forms of worrying would be annoying for someone like you.”

“Why, what am I like?”

That one doesn’t really merit an answer, so Eve just laughs.

Somehow, after that, the ice is broken. At least enough that they never again find themselves starting blankly at each other across Eve’s desk. On some days, conversation is easier; on others, Oksana decides to treat Eve’s office hours a bit too literally and discusses nothing but the syllabus and their assignments.

She’s back to calling her “Professor Polastri”. Like “Eve” is reserved for more intimate situations.

Not intimate like _that_. Just, outside of school or something. Later in the day. Not sitting in an office surrounded by all the reminders that Eve is indeed Professor Polastri.

Oksana is… It’s very difficult to describe her, really. She feels like a million different people, but all so distinctly her, like facets that emerge in turn. There are endless depths to her and at times it feels truly impossible to imagine how she can keep it all so tightly under wraps and walk around being the surface image that people take her for.

Eve feels like she could keep digging forever and always find something new. And sure, along with all the ways in which Oksana is intelligent, or funny, or vulnerable, there are also all the ways in which she is abrasive and childish and distant, but it all just seems to make sense together. To fit into each other perfectly, like pieces of a puzzle.

The office is the perfect neutral ground to foster healthy boundaries. To keep Oksana from pushing too much, as she tends to do whenever given the chance. In the office, there is no flirting or touching, the threat of interruption or eavesdropping keeps Oksana behaved, the school setting keeps them in their places.

But Eve doesn’t want to be Professor Polastri any more. She wants to be Eve. There is a distance between them that keeps Oksana guarded, and the smart thing to do would be to keep that distance, but who else has ever gotten in? And she will never get in like this, like Professor Polastri.

So she makes what is possibly, maybe, perhaps a rash decision.

“Dinner?”

“Yes? She’d probably enjoy a nice home-cooked meal.” She shrugs into her pillow, gazing straight at her tablet. “You know how it is, studying abroad. She’s probably living off junk food.”

“She has her own apartment in Central London, I doubt she’s stocking up on instant noodles.” Niko’s voice is already a little groggy from sleep, and maybe she shouldn’t take advantage of bedtime to get him to agree to things more easily, but it’s just so convenient.

“Still, she’s living alone. I just thought it would be nice to, you know...”

“Be a home away from home for an evening?”

“Something like that.”

“You’ve really fallen for this girl, haven’t you?” Eve’s tablet nearly drops out of her hands. She’s _what?_ “Soon you’ll be printing out the adoption papers.”

She snorts. Asshole. “I’ve told you before, the only child I’ll ever want is a dog. If you walk it.”

Niko rolls over on his side and reaches for the light, a sure sign that he’s given up on resisting her ideas. “Good. I don’t think I’m ready to parent a Russian millionaire with attachment issues.”

“Are you ready to serve her dinner?”

He sighs, probably on the edge of sleep. She resists the urge to prod him a little, just to keep him awake until she gets verbal confirmation.

“Fine,” he mumbles out. It’s barely intelligible. She’ll take it.

Oksana shows about as much enthusiasm as Niko.

“Dinner?” She looks up from the paper she has taken it upon herself to proof-read. She has a distracting habit of snorting loudly whenever she disagrees with the points being made, and she usually misses half the typos, but anything that will keep her entertained is a victory. “Will you cook?”

“No, my husband.”

This seems to disappoint her somehow. Probably because she’s never experienced Eve’s cooking.

“Oh.” She pauses to mark an excess “s” with a very wide red circle that covers most of the text around it, then looks back at Eve and shrugs. “I guess.”

“Any… dietary restrictions?”

“Not really. I will eat anything. E-mail me with the details,” she adds before Eve can say anything else. Conversation over, she supposes.

(...)

Niko is in the kitchen, working on the sauce. Eve is upstairs, in her bedroom, throwing something on and trying not to linger over the choice because what does it even matter what she wears?

But Oksana said she looked nice when she wore her dress, and Eve doesn’t want her to say something in front of Niko—even though it doesn’t matter—because Oksana has a way of saying things and making them mean more, although they _don’t_ mean more, at all. It would just raise questions and create tension.

But what if she wears something regular and Oksana comments on _that?_ Expects Eve to dress up or something? That would raise just as many questions.

Eve can’t even figure out if this a dressing up kind of dinner or not. Would she wear something extra nice if she were inviting some other student here?

Well, she wouldn’t invite another student.

What would she wear when Bill is over, then? Nice blouse, probably. Fine, nice blouse it is.

A delicious smells fills her nostrils as she comes downstairs. At least this part of the dinner doesn’t bring her any worries. She steps into the kitchen and wraps her arms around Niko from behind, peeking around him to sniff at the food.

“Smells good?” he asks. She hums in response and he turns around, disentangling himself. “You look nice.”

Oh God, she overdid it.

“Do I? It’s just the usual work clothes.”

“I guess I’m not used to seeing you in anything above sweatpants around the house.”

“And old t-shirts?”

“And old t-shirts,” he agrees with a smile. He leans in for a peck, which he allows Eve to deepen for a moment before he pulls back. “Can’t burn the sauce,” he explains with a grin.

“Where is the passion?” she comments dramatically, walking away nonetheless. Niko has already set the table, so she has nothing to do but lounge on the sofa and wait.

“You can have passion or you can have guests.”

“Hmm.” She sits down comfortably, curls up her feet on her side and contemplates turning on the TV. “Well, can I have a glass of wine in the meantime?”

The look he gives her is exasperated but fond. He nods at the table, at the pots and pans that surround him, and then at herself doing nothing on the sofa. That’s fair.

She doesn’t get up, though. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t drink before dinner anyway.”

“Nervous?” Niko’s back is turned, so she can’t see his expression, but she’s pretty sure it’s a joke.

“Professional.”

“Judging by how you and Bill get when you’re three glasses in, I’d say drunk Eve is very work-oriented.”

Their drunken debates on the merits of certain authors who shall remain unnamed—okay, fine, it’s mostly Joyce—are both long-winded and very justified. And they give Niko and Bill’s wife Keiko a nice chance to bond, Eve likes to think.

“Work-oriented and professional are two different beasts.”

“Drunk Eve does unbutton her shirts a bit too much.”

She laughs, even though she knows why he’s making the comment. “I get hot.” A non-committal hum. “Do you need me to say it? I will if you need me to,” she prods, mostly teasing.

“I don’t need you to say it,” is Niko’s grudging reply.

The doorbell rings. She gets up, trying to pull her weight at least on this. On her way, she rests her hand on Niko’s waist and leans in close to his ear.

“I’m not cheating on you with Bill,” she whispers seductively, then quickly pushes off towards the door.

“Well, how can a man resist such sweet words?” he calls out after her. She laughs again.

Oksana is at the door. In a suit. Not one of her usual patterned, colourful attires, but a straight up pinstripe suit. She looks like she just came from a business meeting with someone she really wanted to seduce.

Eve must have been standing there for a bit, because suddenly Niko is right behind her, hands on her shoulders to guide her out of the way so Oksana can come inside.

“I feel underdressed,” he comments to fill the void the two women have created, as Eve still says nothing, and Oksana only studies her in return, as if waiting for a cue. Probably a greeting.

“Uh, hi, Oksana. Come in.”

“Thank you,” the girl offers, not bothering to address his previous comment. She steps into the room, hands in her pockets, and immediately begins her usual investigation.

“Tough crowd,” Niko whispers into Eve’s ear, who smacks him away gently. Then he raises his voice to address their guest, who is now all the way across the room, tilting her head to read the titles on their shelf of albums. “Dinner will be ready soon, I just need to let the sauce simmer a bit longer.”

“Can we offer you a drink?”

Oksana’s head snaps up at Eve’s voice. “Oh. I brought something.” She rushes back outside with quick steps and returns with a bottle she’d left by the door. She settles it in Niko’s hands, then releases her hold so quickly he almost drops it. “A gift. For your hospitality. Is there time for a tour of the house before dinner?” she asks, attention fully directed towards Eve.

Well, the bright side is that Oksana hasn’t commented on Eve’s looks. The less bright side is that she’s behaving just as terribly as usual, being her typical erratic self. Eve naively hoped that the rules of etiquette would smooth out some of her edges, but she really should have known better.

“Probably not,” Eve cuts in, subtly edging Niko back to the cooking and relieving him of the bottle. “But there _is_ time to open this and pour ourselves a glass.”

She reaches for the corkscrew, glad that at least Oksana has decided to remain near the table for now. The cork comes out smoothly and she fills all three glasses before sitting down, patting the chair next to her for Oksana.

Oksana takes a slow sip of her wine, lets the drink sit in her mouth as she absorbs the fragrance. Eve takes her own experimental sip. It’s really good. She studies the label and—Oh, that is an expensive one. She’s seen it at the store, way over with the fancy stuff.

“Your house is… cosy.” Oksana’s gaze is fixed on the pot simmering on the stove a few inches from her arm, studying the kitchen like it’s moments away from marching on the dining table and reclaiming the space for itself. “I love open plan,” she comments so earnestly that it sounds even more sarcastic, somehow.

Eve elbows her under the table, a light encouragement for her to behave, and Oksana hits her with an affronted look.

“What? I said I liked it,” she says in a low voice, although Niko is right across from them, stirring the pot, and most likely heard it as clearly as Eve.

“The wine is great!” Eve comments loudly. Why is this stressing her out so much? She doesn’t even care what these two think of each other. “Great wine for great food,” she adds with excitement that sounds more false by the second.

“Oh, are you a great cook, Mr. Polastri?”

“Eve seems to think so,” he answers neutrally as he brings the pot around and begins serving the meal.

“She usually has good taste.” Oksana shovels a too-hot forkful into her mouth and chews it quickly. “But sometimes she likes boring things. Like with her clothes.”

“My clothes are practical!” Eve feels like there was a jab at something else in there, but she’d rather pretend she didn’t notice.

“I like the blue dress,” Niko offers, sending Eve a cheeky grin.

“Oh, yes, that one is nice.” Oksana is talking with her mouth full, of course. When doesn’t she? “This is good, by the way.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

“Is it a Polish dish?”

“No, it’s just… bolognese.”

“Niko likes to add a few extra ingredients. Zucchini, right?”

“Have to make sure she eats her vegetables somehow.”

Oksana stops chewing and gazes at them in turn like she’s just walked in on two adults exchanging baby talk. She reaches for her glass and takes a long drink. She resumes eating.

“So, Oksana,” Niko charges in again. Eve kind of wishes they could just eat in silence for a little while. “How has it been going with Eve? Not too dull, I hope.”

“She is fascinating.” The words are curiously lacking in sarcasm, or bite, and Eve can’t help from looking up at Oksana with surprise. “I have never found her dull. So far,” she adds after a beat, as if smoothing out the intensity of the statement.

“Never too late to disappoint,” Eve cuts in with a nervous laugh. Nothing bad is actually happening, but she just feels so tense. Like she knows the situation will explode sooner or later.

Why would it explode? She’s going insane.

“Yes, I suppose.” Oksana’s gaze doesn’t leave Niko as she answers, despite the fact that he is looking at his bolognese and never even notices. “So, Mr. Polastri, what do you do?”

Does she really not know? Did Eve not mention it in one of their conversations? She must have, by now, but as she thinks it over she can’t be sure. It’s just as likely that Oksana is being a brat and pretending not to know, though.

“I teach high school maths.”

She hums but asks no further questions. The information doesn’t seem to interest her. Niko aims a confused look at Eve, who shrugs slightly in response. That’s Oksana, she hopes to communicate across the table.

“And you, Oksana-”

“I am a university student,” she offers before Niko can finish the sentence.

“Well, yes. I was going to ask, where are you from?”

“Russia.”

“Oh, whereabouts?”

“Where- It’s the big one at the end of Europe.” She looks at him like he’s just grown a second head and both heads have been emptied of brains.

“Whereabouts in Russia,” Eve offers diplomatically. Niko’s eyebrows have risen quite a bit as he fixes an incredulous look on the girl. He can tell she isn’t being serious, right? Just… obstructive, and a little bit rude. Eve takes a long drink of her wine.

“Oh. Right. I was about to say, it’s a good thing you aren’t a high school _geography_ teacher.” She snorts at her own joke. Eve’s face is still buried in her glass. “Moscow, mostly.”

“Is it nice, in Moscow?” It’s Eve talking now, because hopefully this way Oksana will give more reasonable answers.

“More snow than London. Less rain.” She pauses to ponder the comparison, but doesn’t seem to find anything else worth mentioning. “But I haven’t been there in a while. I don’t like being in Russia any more.”

“Why not?”

“All my family are dead.” Niko’s grip on his fork slips and it clatters against the plate before he can secure it. Eve needs to stop hiding behind her wine glass every time the situation grows awkward or she’ll find herself drunk soon. “Plus the house staff has changed and the new cook makes really shitty Solyanka.”

“Is that a… traditional dish?” she asks, hoping to skip over the whole orphan thing.

“It’s a soup. Good for hangovers.”

“How interesting. Is Russian cuisine very soup-based?”

“Maybe. I don’t know what is the baseline for the amount of soup in a country’s gastronomy.”

Oksana has cleared her plate and is halfway through her second serving. Eve knows she was the instigator for this meal, which must mean that she was at one point excited for the interaction to take place, but she can’t imagine why at the moment. She hurries to match Oksana’s pace, hoping that dessert will be equally quick and she can whisk the girl off to her office or something before…

Before Niko gets a bad impression of her? That wouldn’t really matter, would it? Besides, it’s much more likely that Niko will be amused by the whole thing, make some comment later as they get ready for bed, about how of course this strange girl is the one that Eve imprints on.

It’s Oksana, she realizes. She doesn’t want her to dislike Niko. To think he’s boring, and practical, and evidence of Eve’s bad taste. She doesn’t want to disappoint.

Which is ridiculous, because Niko is _her husband_ and Oksana is just some student that will be out of her life in a few months. If Niko disappoints, if that makes Oksana lose interest, then that’s her loss, not Eve’s. Eve made her choice with Niko, a choice she knows was sound, and she won’t be ashamed of him now.

She pauses halfway through swallowing a half-chewed mouthful and slows down again. She waits until Niko glances her way, then arches her eyebrows at him, quirks her lips in a small smile. He keeps his composure, but she sees the glint of amusement in his eyes.

“How about London? What do you think of living here?” Niko tries again, perseverant as always.

“More rain than Moscow. That was a joke,” Oksana adds after a slight pause. It’s so silly that Eve can’t help laughing. Niko joins her, sounding a bit more forced. “It’s not my favourite city. I would prefer something more continental.”

“Berlin?” Niko suggests.

“Or Paris.”

“Well, Paris, of course Paris.” Oksana looks at Eve, apparently curious as to what she means. “I mean, Paris is Paris. Romantic. French is a lovely language.”

“Do you speak French, Eve?”

It’s not the question that catches her by surprise, but her name. There Oksana goes again, saying that single word with all the intimacy in the world. Like a pet name. It makes Eve feel like she should be blushing, avoiding her husband’s questioning gaze, but of course he didn’t even notice anything amiss, of course the intensity that the word carries travels from Oksana to Eve without a single drop spilling onto the outside world. To everyone else, it’s just her name.

“Uh, a little.”

“She’s just being modest. She’s practically fluent.” Eve smacks Niko’s arm at the grand compliment. Oksana watches the exchange, expressionless as usual. “I’m sorry, am I setting you up for disappointment again?” Niko adds with a cheeky smile.

“I would love to hear your French,” Oksana cuts in. “I speak some, myself.”

“Please don’t expect too much,” Eve says quickly. The thought of having Oksana judge her foreign language skills is daunting. When it comes to second languages, Eve’s French certainly pales in comparison to Oksana’s English. Probably in comparison to her French, too.

“The Russian aristocracy all used to speak French, didn’t they? I read that somewhere,” Niko comments.

“I’m sure that was the case in any European country, for a time,” Oksana points out drily.

“Was it? Good thing I’m not a history teacher, either.” Niko laughs a little at his own joke. Oksana offers a slight snort and an upward tilt of her lips that doesn’t last long.

They move on to dessert, chocolate mousse. Oksana inhales hers in seconds, then gets up at once and returns to her inspection of the room.

“She’s… odd,” Niko says diplomatically, leaning forward to keep his voice low.

“We shouldn’t whisper in front of the guest,” Eve returns, whispering as well.

“ _The guest_ is currently busy inspecting our books like we’re the local library.”

“Yeah, she does that.” Eve leans back, clears her throat. “Oksana, would you like more mousse? A refill on your glass?”

“No, thank you,” Oksana fires back without looking her way. She’s leafing through one of Niko’s books on bridge tactics. Huh. Eve thought he kept them all upstairs. “But I’ll take that house tour, whenever you’re ready.”

Niko gets up to clear the plates. Eve makes a half-hearted attempt at helping, that he stops with a hand on her arm.

“Go entertain the guest, I’ve got it here,” he says with a nod of his head. It’s all the encouragement she needs.

“Thanks, love you,” she mumbles out, the words coming to her like muscle memory. She drops the plate she just picked up and heads to Oksana’s side just as she puts the book back. She turns to Eve wordlessly, expectantly, and follows her out of the room.

It doesn’t take them long to walk through every room – the house is, as Oksana put it, quite cosy – and they quickly find themselves in Eve’s office, as messy as the one at the university. Oksana has taken the wheely desk chair, which she turns from side to side like her body just can’t stay still, and Eve is on the spare chair they bring in whenever Niko needs the space too.

“So, what do you think of Niko? You can call him that, by the way. Mr. Polastri is so formal.”

“I don’t mind.”

“You called him Niko at the bar.”

“I was _drunk_.” She emphasizes the word like the very concept is scandalous, eyes widening playfully. She’s picked up a pencil and is now spinning it around her fingers in a feat of dexterity that is almost hypnotizing.

“Fine, suit yourself,” she gives in. Oksana offers a smug little smile at Eve’s concession. “But what did you think of him?”

“Good cook.” Flip, flip, flip. “Excellent moustache.” Flip, flip, flip, flip, flip. Her fingers pause as she studies Eve’s expression. “What?”

“Just, that’s it?”

“I don’t know.” She slumps back in her chair and lets the pencil drop on the table. “What does it matter what I think?”

“It…” It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. “It doesn’t. I was just curious.”

“Which one of you plays bridge?”

“Him.”

“Makes sense.”

“Why?”

A shrug. “Seems like something he’d do.”

“You think he’s boring.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter what I think, so…” Another shrug, this one with a little more attitude.

“You’re jealous.”

Eve doesn’t process the words until after they’ve left her lips. It’s not too late to make a joke of it, laugh, say something about how Oksana doesn’t know how to share the attention.

But Oksana doesn’t cling to it like Eve expected, use it as an opening to be inappropriate. Doesn’t quirk her brow and ask, in her usual suggestive tones, what there is to be jealous of.

She keeps that same neutral face, that appears so expressionless, so stony, but seems less and less like it with every passing day. Eve sees the undercurrents of feeling under the passive surface, the hints of tension in the corners of her mouth, the intensity in the tilt of her eyebrows, the oceans of emotion that seem to flash in and out of her eyes, too quickly to latch on to.

Whatever she’s feeling, it’s unreadable, but there’s so much of it, and it floods Eve’s senses until she isn’t sure what she herself is feeling. Embarrassed? Chastised? Like she knows she’s overstepped, been callous, flaunted the pull she holds.

Oksana’s chair spins until her back is to Eve. She rummages through the contents of the desk, as is her habit, apparently intent on ignoring the comment. Eve watches her without interfering. Should she say something? Change the subject? Or just sit there, wait for Oksana to speak up?

“How did you learn French?”

She sounds... normal. A little quiet, maybe, and still not facing Eve. But certainly not upset, or hurt. That’s good. Eve didn’t mean to hurt her.

“I lived in France for a few years. Worked there, before I got a permanent position here. I taught in English, but it turns out the French make it a sport of pretending not to understand the language, so I needed French for the day-to-day stuff.”

“Yes, the French are snobs,” Oksana agrees easily. Eve laughs at that. “The British aren’t much better.”

“And Americans?” Eve offers playfully.

“Terrible. No concept of inside voices.”

“Maybe you just met loud Americans.”

“Maybe you just met Parisian French people.”

Eve gives that a laugh as well, then they both go quiet, like they’ve run through all their banter and can find nothing else to say.

Oksana turns around.

“It’s getting a bit late.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” Eve offers more out of politeness than an actual desire to keep Oksana there. Some part of her wants to escape the tense atmosphere she’s created, one that didn’t quite dissipate as they picked up their conversation again.

Some part of her wants Oksana to stay, wants to fix what she’s done, but she isn’t sure how she’d even do that. She shies away from the thought, vaguely aware that she shouldn’t go down that path.

“I’m meeting some people after this.”

“Oh. Right, then I guess you’re free to go.”

“Thank you for dinner, it was delicious. I will go say goodbye to Niko.”

She gets up, walks around Eve’s chair and disappears into the hallway. Eve remains in her chair, listening to the muffled sounds of voices as Oksana and Niko exchange goodbyes. She doesn’t bother joining them, she knows Oksana will be on her way out already.

In the silence that follows, Niko comes to find her in the office, rests his hands on her shoulders. The gesture doesn’t bring the usual comfort, the warmth doesn’t wash away the little knot in her chest.

This dinner might have been a mistake.

(...)

Oksana’s behaviour over the next few weeks doesn’t quite catch Eve by surprise, but it’s still disheartening. They don’t progress to a new level of closeness as she had hoped, nowhere close to it. They don’t even go back to what they were before.

Oksana is hot and cold, like she isn’t sure who she wants to be around Eve any more. Her trips to the office are less frequent; when she’s there, she is either at her most abrasive, full of witty replies and mile-high walls, or strangely quiet, barely saying a word, leaving early like she regrets coming at all. And all the time, it feels like she’s just on the cusp of saying something, something specific, something important, but she never manages it.

Eve can’t stop thinking about it. She wants to meet Oksana in the middle, but she doesn’t know what that middle looks like. She doesn’t know what the girl wants, and whether she can give it.

But she seems so lost. Oksana Astankova, tall and proud and untouchable, looks fragile. Torn. Eve wanted to help her, and now she feels like she’s making everything worse.

She reads the last few lines on the page in front of her, making just enough sense of them to know that this is another document for the trash pile. She sweeps the whole thing into the bin and leans back with a sigh.

The thought of cleaning up all those old boxes of papers seemed appealing, a way to remove the clutter in some area of her life, until she actually started doing it. Now she’s mostly just hoping the dust won’t set off a sneezing fit.

And bored. She’s really bored.

There is a knock at her open door. Oksana stands there, hair so impeccably tucked into a bun that she looks like a model in one of those hairdresser magazines. She offers a flighty smile when Eve makes eye contact.

“Oksana, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Oh, should I start scheduling my office hours?” She takes in a quick breath, like she’s preparing to carry out a little pantomime of how exactly she should go about booking some time with Eve, then seems to rethink it and goes abruptly quiet. The little dial in Eve’s head, which was already swinging towards abrasive Oksana, stops just as abruptly and edges back to quiet Oksana.

“No, of course not, you just didn’t say anything after class this morning so I thought you might have gone home for the afternoon like you usually do on Tuesdays.”

Eve’s knowledge of her routine seems to mollify Oksana. She smiles again, a little more heartfelt, and steps into the room. She doesn’t sit down on her usual chair, but instead rests a hand on its back, the grip not quite relaxed.

“I can’t stay long, actually.” Yes, definitely quiet Oksana. “I have some things to take care of. Not important. I just, um, wanted to let you know that I won’t be coming to class next week.”

“Did something happen? Is everything alright?”

Oksana takes in a breath that becomes a sigh, as whatever explanation she was brewing up didn’t make it out in time. She tries again, studied nonchalance in her voice. “Everything is fine. Just a little trip.”

“Weird timing, in the middle of the term like that. Are you going with someone?”

“No,” Oksana replies, like the concept is ludicrous, but she doesn’t offer any more information.

“Well, is it very time-sensitive? Can’t you leave it until after evaluations?” Eve figures the girl wants her to ask, or she wouldn’t be sticking around for it. When Oksana wants to avoid a conversation, there is really no fighting it.

“A bit, yes. It’s an anniversary,” she admits, as Eve expected. Well, not the anniversary part. Just the part where she knew Oksana wanted to open up despite the act. The anniversary part is unexpected.

“Is it… a good anniversary?”

The question seems to stump her. Is she trying to come up with a way out of it, some way to keep things ambiguous? Or is it genuinely a polarizing anniversary?

“It’s the date of my father’s, um… passing.”

Oh. Not polarizing, then. Very clearly not a good one.

“Oh my God, Oksana, I am so sorry. We don’t have to talk about this if you’re not comfortable, I- Wait, you’re going off alone for a week? On the anniversary of…” She pauses at that. Oddly, she doesn’t want to say the words.

“It’s a tradition, of sorts. I go somewhere really nice and sunny and not at all like home. It’s fun.”

An image crystallises in Eve’s mind. It’s Oksana in a sundress, sitting at some beach, sipping on one of those drinks they put in coconuts, stylish sunglasses covering her eyes, her face utterly mirthless. Just sitting there in the sun, crowds and families and couples enjoying themselves around her, as cold as if she’d gone to Russia after all.

It’s a dramatic visual. She doesn’t seem like the beach type, anyway. Probably poolside. Cheers herself up with some retail therapy. Picks up a nice-looking foreigner at the hotel bar, brings her back to her suite for-

“Are you sure that’s what you want? Isn’t there someone who can go with you? Being alone doesn’t seem like the best way to spend this time.”

“Other people don’t understand. They try to make me talk about it, or empathize.”

“I…” Eve’s mouth opens and shuts a few times because she isn’t sure herself of how she’s going to end that sentence, because the only thing that comes to mind is ridiculous. “I… could go with you. Promise not to talk about it.”

Oksana blinks rapidly. Nothing else about her demeanour betrays anything, but it’s enough for Eve to know that she’s been caught entirely by surprise. To be fair, so was Eve.

“Well, I can’t really do a week. Students might be discouraged from skipping classes, but teachers are… _really_ not supposed to. Would a weekend go too much against your plans?” Surprise still seems to be slowing Oksana’s mental processes, because she doesn’t respond in the fraction of a second Eve allows her before remembering something else. Namely, that she’s probably planning on going somewhere really expensive. “And, uh, what’s your definition of nice and sunny? Because it is lovely up north this time of year and actually, my family has this nice cottage-”

“Scotland?” Oksana finally manages to interrupt, indignation winning out and bringing her back to life. “I don’t think that fits any known definition of nice and sunny.”

“Well, think about it.” From the way Oksana is shaking her head before Eve finishes the sentence, she can tell she won’t have much luck. “And one more thing…”

“Niko can’t come,” Oksana snaps out, immediately on the defensive.

“Oh, no, no, I definitely wasn’t going to- He’d be- It would be weird,” Eve settles on, after a few abortive attempts at an explanation of why she definitely doesn’t want to repeat the experience of their dinner party. “I actually wanted to know if you’re planning on going to the beach. Or pool or… something else aquatic. Just to plan out the wardrobe.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

Eve’s mind shifts gears, back to Niko. She wishes they could just gloss over him before things get awkward again.

“About the weekend? I don’t know, the truth?”

“That you’re having a weekend away with your student?”

There she goes again, making everything sound wrong.

“I’m keeping you company.”

“In my hour of need,” Oksana finishes with dramatic flair, making a face that belongs on a southern belle that has suddenly found herself faced with some dire trouble, like a mud puddle in her path or iced tea that has grown warm.

“Kind of, yeah.” Sure, Oksana would like to pretend she has no hours of need, no needs at all. But the way she accepted Eve’s offer at once, not even pretending to consider it for a moment, tells a different story.

“Suit yourself. He’s _your_ husband. But we’re not going to Scotland. And you’ll need to pack swimwear.”

And with that, she’s off, leaving behind a cloud of her scent that overpowers the smell of dust for a few seconds, then begins to settle, slowly reminding Eve that she should go back to her trash sorting.

This girl really is going to be the death of her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you also think the French are snobs? Are you also interested in the baseline for soup? Let me know ^^
> 
> Also twitter has been kind of a mess lately, but I'm still there @evesaxe in case you want to say hi


	4. Happy now?

Niko doesn’t protest. Eve half-expects another joke about adoption papers or insinuations of a midlife crisis, but he just looks at her, unreadable, and it should be a warning sign. It’s been years since Niko has been unreadable, since any facet of his face and expressions was anything but deeply familiar.

But unreadable feels nice. Feel different, new. Isn’t it good to reinvent ourselves sometimes, to keep things fresh? Or was it the plan to live out the decades they have left always knowing exactly what each quirk of a brow or tilt of the lips or narrowing of the eyes means?

It’s too early, is what it is. Too early for her thoughts to be anything but a weird jumble of philosophical ponderings that go nowhere. When she gets home, she’ll see Niko’s face and find it perfectly readable and have no problem with it at all.

But for now, it’s 8 AM and she’s been at the airport since 6, muffling yawns into her arm and wishing desperately that airport coffee didn’t taste like cardboard.

Nearly an hour later, when Eve was beginning to panic, Oksana joined her at a leisurely pace, hands in the pockets of her slacks, no luggage in sight. That’s when Eve was informed, in a tone that showed way too much amusement, that fancy expensive tickets have perks, like door-to-door baggage pickup and fast-tracking through pretty much every line in the airport.

Between contacting a very nice British Airways employee who immediately runs off with her bags like he’ll be personally punished for any delay, navigating the maze that is Duty Free with a woman who keeps getting lost and popping up at the perfume aisle, and wondering how Oksana can look so awake and human at such an ungodly hour, the brain space that is left to process Niko and the long-term future is clearly not optimal.

They aren’t going to Scotland. Nope, they are going to Marseilles, which combines all of Oksana’s requirements: it’s nice, it’s sunny, it’s expensive and it’s French. That last one was added to the list when Eve joined the trip. Apparently the desire to hear Eve’s French lives on.

It’s a short flight, not quite 2 hours, so there’s no point in trying to nap on the plane. Eve did pack a book, although she doubts there will be much time for quiet relaxing as long as she’s with Oksana, and in the end she doesn’t even crack it open. She’s never travelled first-class before, since her budget doesn’t usually allow it, but right now they’re on Oksana’s budget and clearly hers has a lot more stretch to it.

Or technically it’s not first class. It’s something else, with a very long name but a lower price, because “First class just doesn’t pay for itself in shorter flights. Can’t even use the spa,” which was admitted in a careless tone that was clearly used to compensate for some embarrassment.

Oh, to be embarrassed at not having bought the absolute most expensive tickets at the last minute, but only the second most expensive.

Eve spends half her time scrolling through the list of available movies, to watch on the giant screen in front of her seat which she is pretty sure is bigger than her TV back home. Oksana leans over to watch her work, then laughs loudly.

“We land in an hour,” she reminds Eve, and it sounds so much like a grown-up explaining to a child that you can’t eat frozen chicken fingers straight out of the box, that she is filled with a sleep-deprivation-fueled urge to smack her with the in-flight magazine.

Her fiddling is interrupted by the arrival of breakfast, including coffee that tastes like coffee – “And not the shitty coffee you Brits drink,” Oksana happily adds -, actual non-plastic cutlery and food that is neither gross nor difficult to identify.

By the time they land, Eve is already feeling like an honorary member of the 1%, and the feeling doesn’t cease as they once again bypass all lines out of the airport and are informed by another very nice young man that their bags will await them at their hotel.

And oh, their hotel. It is… Wow. It’s a palace.

Not an exaggeration. Eve genuinely thought it was some historic building until the taxi came to a rolling stop by the gates. Beyond them, the hotel sits atop a small hill that affords a view nearly up to the water’s edge. Up in their rooms, they will probably be able to see the full bay of the Vieux-Port harbour.

Eve is getting a headache just thinking about how much this must cost. But Oksana barely blinks at the sight before she marches decisively inside and up to the counter to confirm her booking and get the room keys. Standing frozen in the middle of the lobby – it’s not that impressive, if she pretends it actually is a historical building and not the hotel where she’ll be spending the night -, Eve catches a glimpse of matte black exchange hands.

Is this horribly exploitative? To let Oksana pay for everything with her fancy little black credit card? Eve offered to share the costs, but Oksana’s answer was simple and logical: Eve can’t afford what Oksana wants. So it’s a weekend of freeloading or no weekend at all.

The bags are inside the rooms already. It’s an odd sight, to see her old Samsonite, a little scuffed at the bottom, sitting there near the plush sofa and the huge bed and the terrace with a view of the Port. God, that view. Oksana is already done getting settled and barging into Eve’s room – she didn’t even remember to close the door – and she is still standing there staring out the double doors.

She is laughed at _again_ by the bratty heiress who has probably been staying at places like this her whole life, and not a second later her hand is in Oksana’s grip and she is being dragged away, down to the restaurant, because apparently the girl is “too hungry to wait for you to pick up your jaw from the nice hardwood floor.”

The restaurant has Michelin stars.

The hotel restaurant. Has Michelin stars.

“Do you know the best part of travelling in the off season?” Oksana asks conversationally as Eve studies the menu and tries very hard to pretend she doesn’t know the conversion rate between pounds and euros.

“Lower prices?” she offers, because it’s hard to think of anything else right now.

Oksana laughs, very loudly. The few other people in the room, who are all very finely dressed and were, until now, enjoying a quiet meal, turn to study the offending table. Eve wants to slide down her chair to avoid detection, but she senses that this would only further mark her as an outsider.

Entirely unbothered, Oksana sweeps a hand in front of her to encompass the mostly empty tables around them. “The privacy,” she explains with a pleased smile. Then it becomes less dignified and more excitedly childish. “I’ll bet we can get the pool to ourselves!”

The waiter arrives and God, even _his_ clothes look more expensive than Eve’s. Oksana orders a menu with a fancy name that, as far as Eve can tell from the quick exchange, consists of five dishes and is best paired with a white wine.

“Are you alright, Eve?” Oksana asks, turning back to her. “You have been very quiet since we landed. I was hoping to hear some of your French by now.”

“Oh, well…” The thought of interacting with the sharply-dressed man whose haircut probably costs more than Eve’s entire outfit is not an appealing one. “You seem to be handling it. And I can confirm that your French is better than mine. You sound like a native.”

“I have more of a Parisian accent, actually.”

“Well, I have more of an American accent,” Eve counters with a self-deprecating laugh. She’s not sure whether she’s being paranoid or the murmur of conversation really does die down a bit at the sound.

“Are you embarrassed of your accent?” Oksana seems surprised. Embarrassment is probably a foreign concept to her. “It will be fine, you can sound like the most obnoxious of Americans when you have money. You can also do THIS!” she concludes loudly, yelling out the word and stunning the entire restaurant into silent.

A few patrons look their way, evidently offended, and Oksana holds their glares with absolute contempt, until one by one they bow down and return to their meals like nothing happened. In the middle of this scene, the waiter appears with the first dish and sets down the plates without a word.

“I don’t really want to,” Eve deadpans once they’re alone again. Oksana shrugs in acceptance, digging into the tiny but very artful portion. “And it’s not the accent, it’s, uh, just…” She waves at the opulent room and the view outside and also a little at Oksana’s fancy outfit. “I didn’t really pack for a 5-star trip. I feel like I’m standing out a little bit.”

“Yes, you are standing out a lot. You look like you’ve wandered in off the street for a charity meal.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I’m just being honest.” Oksana shoves the last bit of the food into her mouth and nods at Eve’s plate, still full. “Speaking of which, you should eat that before they take it away. Who knows when you’ll-”

“When I’ll get my next meal? On the street?”

“When you’ll get to taste a bouillabaisse this good,” Oksana concludes after a slight pause. “But your thing is pretty funny, actually, so that too.”

Eve sighs and carelessly takes a bite, then finds herself immediately thrown out of her thoughts and worries as her taste buds take full charge.

“Do you want to look nicer and not stand out?” Eve doesn’t really care about anything but her fish right now, so she just nods absently. “Well, stand out _less_. There’s always your haircut and-”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Eve calls out indignantly, mouth not quite empty yet. Can they get kicked out for improper eating etiquette?

“Your hair is amazing. Your haircut is cheap.” The waiter comes by with the second course, which looks just as tiny and just as delicious. “But we can fix the clothes. And the shoes. And how do you feel about jewellery?”

Eve mulls it over. “Neutral?”

The thought seems to horrify Oksana. “At least a nicer watch,” she demands, lip slightly curled in disgust as she studies the mid-range timepiece on Eve’s wrist.

She offers a non-committal hum and focuses on the small fillet of fish that sits under an appealing orange sauce, just waiting to be eaten.

“Eve,” Oksana says in a forceful tone, clearly trying to recover the attention that has now been devoted entirely to the food.

“I’ll just get a fancy dress, it’s fine.”

“Do you know how many Michelin stars this restaurant has?”

“One?”

“That’s right. Well, the restaurant where we are having dinner has three,” Oksana enunciates, the words sounding ominous. “And it is also three times as expensive.”

“Fancy dress not going to cut it?”

“I don’t trust your definition of fancy.”

The fish is really really good, but even that doesn’t quite rescue Eve’s mood. “What do I need to buy?”

Oksana, on the other hand, looks the most excited she’s been today. She almost claps her hands together at Eve’s grudging assent. “Don’t worry, I will take care of everything!”

(...)

Eve is never letting Oksana “take care of everything” again.

She’s never been a shopping kind of girl. She likes nice clothes, sure. She likes putting on a pretty dress and watching the way the fabric hugs her curves and highlights her best features. She likes the feel of an expensive silk blouse, the cut of good, quality, high-end dress pants.

Just like she likes the taste of a 5-course tasting menu at a Michelin star restaurant.

They’re things to fantasize about, to try once or twice when she has a wedding or similarly formal event to attend. Any more than that and she just finds herself standing in a fancy dressing room, watching herself in the mirror and wondering when in the world she is ever going to wear any of this stuff.

She supposes the thought never crosses Oksana’s mind. After all, the girl goes to class in designer brands. She sits right there in the lecture hall, next to people wearing sweatpants and, on at least one occasion, something that Eve is still sure were actually pyjamas, and doesn’t feel out of place at all.

Eve, on the other hand, can’t imagine going off to work in Burberry, accidentally leaning against the blackboard and getting chalk dust all over an Alexander McQueen, spilling coffee on her Valentino bag.

So there are a few reasons why Eve isn’t too happy with the afternoon’s shopping, first and foremost being the fact that these are clothes she will wear for the weekend and then hide away in a closet at home and never touch again. Which is a sad thought indeed, considering how nice and flattering and almost intoxicating some of these pieces are.

Second on the list, and definitely impacted by the first concern, is the sheer volume of it.

Eve thought she was prepared. Rather than a simple combination of dress, shoes and possible accessories, she already knew to expect a few outfits, to give her options and allow for a change of clothes, and then another one just in case of tragedy, and probably both high heels and more sensible shoes, for walking. Maybe a couple of bags, a scarf she won’t need, a few extra bits and pieces just because Oksana is that easily distracted.

She has lost track. She has genuinely lost track. Her hands are weighed down by what feels like a hundred bags, not counting all the stuff that was sent straight to the hotel. Every single piece of clothing she can think of has been covered, every style of footwear, every type and size and shape of accessory.

Third and almost final is a more familiar concern, that has chased her since the start of their trip. Money.

That little black card is now etched in Eve’s memory, every detail of it, from how often she’s seen Oksana pull it out, run it through a machine and leisurely return it to her wallet. The thought of how much money has been spent on clothes she’ll likely never wear makes her feel guilty, no matter how nonchalantly Oksana spends it.

Last of all is she’s tired. Her feet hurt and she got up very early and she never knew how tiring shopping could be. It’s like an endurance test. People should get medals for this.

But despite all her issues with the shopping situation, she doesn’t really do anything about it. Doesn’t bring it to a stop or even do much beyond the occasional grumbling and dragging of feet. And all the reasons for _that_ can be more or less summed up in a single word: Oksana.

Oksana’s eyes light up every time they enter a store. Every single time. Hours after they’ve started and she still lights up. It begins to raise a few doubts in Eve’s mind about her mental stability, but it’s also endearing, in a way. It seems so genuine, so effortless and natural. The girl just really likes shopping.

She also has impeccable taste and immediately catches on to what would both look good on Eve and also not feel like an utter reversal on her usual style of dress. She’ll take a lap around the displays, pick up a dozen items for Eve to try on, and then nod appreciatively as she models them one by one. And they’ll all look _amazing_. Eve would have no idea how to choose which ones to actually take home if Oksana weren’t so good at detecting every flaw and unflattering detail and quickly eliminating at least half the options.

If the whole being born rich thing doesn’t work out for her, she can always consider a career in fashion.

The third reason is, of course, that Eve is being extra nice to the orphan. Yes, yes, she knows, but crude attempts at emotional manipulation aside, she feels that at least this weekend she is particularly justified in giving Oksana a little leeway.

So she lets herself be dragged around until she’ll sure her feet will get blisters, and she lets Oksana swipe her credit card all afternoon, and she poses and twirls with every single thing the girl chooses, and she keeps score of every smile she can bring forth in what must be a difficult time. And hey, she’ll at least have a couple of days to wear her fancy new clothes.

By the time they’re done with the shopping, they barely have time to return to the hotel, drop off their haul and change into something more formal before they’re on their way to the restaurant.

This one is right by the water. Not the harbour, but the actual Mediterranean, coming right up to the edge of the balcony where their table is located. Everywhere that Eve looks, all she sees is beautiful clear water and far off promontories, the sound of the rushing waves never leaving her ears. She’s a little cold in her sleeveless dress, but she can’t deny that she looks fantastic, and for once doesn’t cringe when the waiter approaches. Her outfit is _definitely_ more expensive than his now.

The food is indeed three times as expensive and, somehow, despite her initial doubts that it could even be possible to top lunch, it is also three times as delicious. She doesn’t think she can ever eat fish again, because it will only be a sad and grim reminder of what fish _could_ taste like, in the hands of someone talented enough.

On their way back to the hotel, Eve realizes another positive of haute cuisine, beyond how incredibly good it tastes: the small portions mean that, even after sampling half the restaurant’s menu, she doesn’t feel her usual stuffed and sleepy self. She feels light, energized, further from sleep than she’s been all day.

When Oksana lingers by the door to Eve’s room, in a goodbye that drags on, Eve decides that the girl doesn’t have to be alone quite yet, if she so clearly doesn’t want to. She invites her inside, to look through all their new purchases and maybe decide on the ensembles for tomorrow, and Oksana accepts with an easy smile.

“The wine we had with dinner was really good.”

“Yes.”

It’s an hour later and they’re sitting on the floor surrounded by dresses. Eve tried a few of them on again, but quickly lost momentum and now wears her fuzzy complimentary robe over her pyjamas, which feel much more worn-out and ratty than they ever did at home.

“ _Really_ good.”

“Yes.”

Oksana has removed her jacket and rolled up her sleeves, but no matter how much Eve insists that she should change into something more comfortable, she remains in the shirt and fitted pants she wore to the restaurant.

“I’m just saying, it feels a little… unappreciative to chase it with hotel booze.”

“But it’s 5-star-hotel booze.”

She holds a tiny bottle in her hand, one of many stocked in the room’s mini-fridge. It’s true that the liquor seems to be of much better quality than some of the stuff she has at home, but still.

“Also, shouldn’t we chase wine with something weaker? Not…” She pauses to read the label. “Vodka.”

“Oh, I’ll take that,” Oksana perks up, reaching for the bottle and pulling it out of Eve’s grip before she can react.

“You like vodka? Way to break the stereotype.”

“Just shush and have the whiskey.”

A new bottle is thrust in her hand. It is indeed whiskey. With a shrug, Eve pops it open and takes a sip.

Oksana’s wish for her French has now been totally satisfied, Eve is sure. All afternoon, she spoke to shop lady after shop lady, and even inquired about one of the dishes at dinner. Now, between drinks, Oksana recalls the things she’s said and gently corrects her on pronunciation, grammar, all the genders she got wrong.

“You are good, for an English speaker.”

“For an English speaker?” Eve repeats, more amused than offended. Things are beginning to seem a lot more fun, which she knows is the first sign that she should slow down on the drinking, but they’re having such a nice moment and she doesn’t want to shut it down.

“Yes, you are at a distinct disadvantage. English is like… half a language. Like you’re holding together a bunch of irregular verbs and grammatical exceptions with some string and duct tape.” Eve snorts at the description. “You have no genders, barely any cases, you don’t know what anything sounds like until you hear it spoken out loud. It’s awful.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I love it,” Oksana replies with a sudden burst of laughter. As soon as it’s over, she’s back to serious and intensely gazing at Eve. “I want to show you something.”

She rummages through the bags and returns with a dress that Eve doesn’t recognize, a shoulderless black and white piece with a cinched waist. Just looking at it, she can picture how elegantly it would outline her profile.

“When did you buy this?” she exclaims with pleased surprise.

“This afternoon, at Moore.”

“But I saw everything we bought there.” Struck by a sudden thought, Eve reaches for the bag and finds the receipt inside, every item outline. The dress definitely isn’t in it.

“I know. You always did. That’s why I had to swipe the dress, if I wanted to surprise you.”

“You… shoplifted?”

Oksana leans across the space that separates them and drapes the dress over Eve, draws the outline of her waist across the fabric – God, it’s really the perfect size. She’ll look amazing.

“I just couldn’t resist. I knew it would suit you perfectly.”

Eve’s grip on the dresses tightens slightly. Oksana is right. It’s perfect.

“Did you take anything else?” she finds herself asking, instead of protesting or berating her or even making some demand of returning the items.

With a pleased grin, Oksana searches through half a dozen other bags, pulling out pumps, cardigans and scarves. They all look beautiful, and although a bit beyond Eve’s usual style, they are all somewhat understated. Things that Eve might see herself wearing beyond this weekend.

“You like it,” Oksana states confidently, watching Eve turn over an impossibly soft scarf in her hands. She’s right, of course.

Instead of confirming it, she carefully puts the scarf away and returns her attention to Oksana.

“How do you even know how to get away with this stuff?”

It’s probably a question that should be spoken gravely, but she can’t help the amusement in her voice. Oksana is just so unpredictable. She has such a flagrant lack of concern for the consequences, a flair for doing what isn’t allowed, that some part of Eve feels like that alone should allow her some special rights. Innocent by sheer shamelessness.

“If I wanted to shop with daddy’s card, I had to go with daddy’s security detail,” Oksana replies simply, the childlike word sounding just slightly off in her mouth. Like it’s tinged with irony. “Sometimes I wanted a little freedom.”

“Enough to risk jail time,” Eve points out the irony.

Oksana drains the rest of her vodka and reaches for another bottle. Eve really should put a stop to this now.

She finishes off her whiskey and joins her by the minibar.

(...)

Eve wakes up in her fluffy robe, one leg hanging off the bed, the sheets only covering her from the waist down and her pillow damp from drool. She stumbles to her feet, the world tilting a little as she does, and pulls open the curtains.

Bright light floods the room and a groan of protest makes her jump, until she remembers how the previous night ended.

A thorough raid of the minibar, an increasingly incoherent discussion on southern European cuisine, a blurring at the edges as sleep overtook her and then both women curling up on the nearest soft surface, the empty room next door entirely forgotten.

On the sofa, Oksana stretches and continues to groan, scrunching up her eyes angrily against the light hitting her straight on. Eve pulls the curtains closed just enough to return her corner of the room to shadow.

“I think it’s late,” she comments in a croaky voice. Her throat is all dry and cottony.

“What time is it?” Oksana doesn’t make any move to get up from the couch, or even open her eyes, really.

Eve casts a searching glance across the room, eventually finding her phone, but it stubbornly refuses to come to life. Must be out of battery.

Oh, she totally forgot to call Niko. She makes a mental note to text him or something once she has her phone back, then turns around and looks for her watch instead.

“It’s…” She squints, her vision still hazy from sleep. “10. No, wait, 11.” Stupid time zones. “What time do you think breakfast ends?”

Oksana’s answer comes in the form of a snort. So fancy hotels aren’t any better about letting guests sleep in. “Wait an hour and they’ll be open for lunch.”

“No, no, I can’t have fancy tiny food right now, I need coffee.” Oksana interrupts her with a clearing of her throat and a weary hand pointing out the espresso maker on the end table. Rich people really have it good. “I also need something greasy and familiar.”

Finally, Oksana gives in to reality and peels herself off the sofa. Immediately, she reaches for a folded piece of paper by the phone. “Fine, let’s get room service. Something familiar, you said. Well, it’s a fancy hotel, but they might have… beans. Or something. Boiled tomatoes.”

Ew. “Just get me pancakes, do fancy hotels have pancakes?”

“They have crepes. Do you want…” She squints at the list and reads off the options, “Chocolate and nuts or wildberry parfait?”

“Uh, wildberry. I’m going to brush my teeth and try to wake up now.”

She locks herself in the bathroom and enjoys approximately five seconds of peace before Oksana is knocking on the door.

“Eve, they have tiny sausages, that’s British too, right? Do you want some?”

“Sure, thanks,” she calls out around a mouthful of toothpaste.

After another interruption to get Eve’s egg order (“Scrambled?” “Oh my God, even your taste in eggs is boring.”) and one more to suggest adding champagne to the order, which Eve shuts down with finality, not just because she’s had enough of drinking but also because there’s something unpleasantly decadent about having champagne for breakfast, Oksana makes the call then disappears into her own room to shower.

They dig into their breakfast moments later, both showered and slightly more awake after some coffee. Oksana is in her own fuzzy robe, with wet hair falling down her back and a bare face. For once, she looks her age, which Eve is reminded is so very young.

The moment is ruined when she starts stealing Eve’s sausages with perfectly timed stabs of her fork. And cackling maniacally whenever Eve tries and fails to stop her. Apparently Eve has “the reflexes of an anaesthetized sloth.”

Unexpectedly, she gives in to Eve’s request to do some actual tourism and take a stroll around the city. Dressed in some of their new clothes, they walk the length of the Vieux-Port, taking in the rows of boats and the fresh sea air. They continue south along the water, out of the harbour and now following the Mediterranean, then explore a park that runs up a hill and gives an absolutely stunning view of their surroundings.

There’s also a palace that looks almost exactly like their hotel and Eve feels vaguely vindicated in her first impression.

Lunch is, thankfully, not another 5-star ordeal with waiters in uniform and too many forks. Sure, the food is great, but the comforting breakfast and fresh sea air hasn’t quite cleared Eve’s hangover yet, so a tomato and mozzarella sandwich at a bar overlooking a small beach is a much preferable option.

Through it all, Oksana is as compliant with the tourism as Eve was with the shopping, barely complaining at all and seeming content to watch the waves. She does refuse to enter any building that might possibly be a museum of sorts, and at least twice almost leaves Eve stranded to run off to a nice-looking boutique, but that’s probably as well-behaved as Oksana can manage.

After their late lunch, Eve finds herself being dragged back to the hotel, because Oksana categorically refuses to leave Marseilles without checking out the hotel pool.

“Really? The pool? Every hotel everywhere has a pool.”

“Every city everywhere has streets and you still made me walk the ones here for hours.”

“Every city also has stores.”

Oksana stops in her tracks and fixes wide eyes on Eve. “You didn’t like the shopping?”

Past experience tells Eve that she’s probably just fishing for a reaction, or for the best tactic to shut down opposition, and wouldn’t actually be heartbroken by the truth.

But she’s so good at acting it. Those big eyes and furrowed brows just scream vulnerability. That manipulative little asshole really has the world in the palm of her hand.

“The shopping was fine.”

“The shopping was wonderful. And so will be the pool,” Oksana adds with smug confidence.

Eve’s hand is once again gripped in Oksana’s, literal tugging being the girl’s preferred method of steering, and they walk to the hotel along the shortest path, which cuts across the city. It would be a chance for Eve to see a bit more of the streets and local life, except they’re going so fast that it’s all she can do to keep from tripping.

“Why do you always walk so fast? You’re in heels half the time.”

“Lots of practice.”

“I didn’t ask _how_.”

Oksana throws an unimpressed glance her way and nearly barrels into a young mother with a baby stroller. She barely registers it.

“I am an impatient woman. If there is somewhere I want to be, all the getting there gets on my nerves.”

“You sound like a motivational speaker at a training camp for CEOs.”

“Not like a CEO? Eve, do you have a gender bias?”

“Fine, like a CEO. Happy now?”

She turns back once more, not slowing down at all yet somehow avoiding slamming into a street post. “Ecstatic.”

Their pool plans hit a small snag. It would be nothing but a minor inconvenience, if Oksana were a reasonable person, but unfortunately that is not the case.

“Let’s just go downstairs and ask for a new one, please, this is-”

“They charge you for replacement keys.”

“They do? Even in the fancy places?” Eve assumed they’d hand you the new key with a bow and a flurry of apologies, maybe even throw in a spa package for your troubling experience.

“Yes, and in the fancy places it is more expensive.”

“Well, how much do they charge for breaking into their rooms?”

Oksana pauses her fiddling and groans, like Eve is just the biggest spoiler of fun. “If they don’t find out, nothing. So you should do your job and keep watch.”

“God, I’ll pay for the key myself-”

“It is _right there_. I know it is. Sitting on the bedside table where I left it to get changed. If you can just leave me alone for a minute so I can concentrate and actually get this thing to work-”

“What do I do if someone shows up?”

“Nothing,” Oksana says smugly. She steps away from a door that now hangs open. “I’m done.”

The room is perfectly neat, as expected after the cleaning service, with absolutely no trace of occupation. Oksana strolls to the bedside table, opens and closes both drawers, walks away again.

“No key?”

Her comment is ignored as Oksana steps up to the wardrobe and swings it open.

“Oh, this isn’t my room.”

Eve genuinely can’t tell whether the girl is expressing surprise or just sharing a fact that she didn’t think it relevant to mention until now. Moving closer, she can see that not an item of clothing in there is something that would ever touch Oksana’s frame without some sort of violent coercion.

Oksana closes the double doors and turns to Eve with a smile as cryptic as her comment. “I must have gotten my lefts and rights mixed up.”

“Did you even lose your key?”

“Probably? Oh, I know what we should do!” She skips over to the phone without a trace of concern, either for the fact that they’re in the room of a stranger who could show up at any moment, or for Eve’s reaction to all this.

“What’s that?”

She lifts the phone up to her ear with a mischievous grin. “Hello, room service?”

Eve stands frozen to the spot, just staring at her as the girl’s grin widens. She’s… speaking in a perfect English accent. The pitch of her voice goes a little higher, making Eve feel for a second like she’s watching a ventriloquism act. Oksana opens her mouth and someone else’s voice comes pouring out.

“Yes, could you bring up a bottle of champagne?” She twirls the cord of the old-fashioned phone around her finger and quirks her brows at Eve. “Which one? Oh, I don’t know, really. What’s the best one you’ve got?”

Her mouth slowly curves into a little “o” shape as she listens intently. “Oh, that sounds lovely! And how much is it?” She nods into the receiver. “That _is_ a bit steep, but I suppose one can’t put a price on quality. And will that go on the room bill? Charged straight to the card on record, sounds _perfect_.”

“Is this the next step up from shoplifting?” Eve asks once she’s replaced the receiver. Of course they’ll have to stay here until the champagne arrives, now. Hopefully it’ll be quick, and no more surprises.

“Not necessarily up. Maybe a sidestep.” Just like that, Oksana’s voice is back to its usual accent and huskiness. It knocks Eve breathless all over again, which doesn’t go unnoticed. “What?”

“Nice accent,” she has the presence of mind to reply, doing her best to sound teasing.

“Thanks,” Oksana says with a hint of pride. “The Russian does call a bit of attention.”

“And you hate _that_.”

The comment earns her a chuckle. “Sometimes.” Oksana closes the distance between them on her way to the sofa, where she drops gracefully, arms coming up to rest on either side. “Rarely.”

They do end up at the pool, with the very expensive champagne in tow, and the place turns out to be completely empty – “Off season,” Oksana repeats with a knowing smile -, so they settle themselves on a couple of chairs by the water and take turns sipping straight from the bottle. It feels a little like the rich person equivalent of Eve’s typical high school adventures, running around empty parking lots, sitting on roofs, sipping beer that someone’s older brother sneaked them.

Eve dipped her feet in the pool but didn’t feel the need to jump in, so she sits back in her comfortable chair, one of her own t-shirts over her swimsuit, eyes half-closed.

Oksana does a few laps, sleek and silent as her limbs move in and out of the water, betraying years of formal training. She ignores the stairs at the corner and hoists herself up right by their chairs. Water drips down a well-maintained body and her skin glistens as she drops down next to Eve, reaching immediately for the champagne.

Eve thinks she’s done a good job of it this weekend. The shopping, the meals, the late night at the hotel, even now with the little champagne trick and the pool. Oksana has seemed lighter than Eve has seen her in a while. Not weighed down by the memories that must be cropping up around this time.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yes, I do work out,” Oksana replies without hesitation.

Of course. Dick.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t have to see you in a bikini to piece that one together. You’re definitely the type.”

“But it helps, right?”

Eve usually tries to avoid rolling her eyes at Oksana, since it seems like the kind of thing that would only prolong their endless banter, but this time there really is no other response possible.

“Fine, what do you want to ask? If it isn’t about my wonderful physique.” Oksana scrunches up her eyes and stretches, her actions very natural but clearly aimed at catching Eve’s attention.

“It’s, uh…” One of Oksana’s eyes pops open, curious at her hesitation. “Right, so I know I said I wouldn’t talk about it…”

Oksana immediately stops stretching and turns her head towards Eve, looking she’s about to roll her eyes too. “Seriously?”

“I promise I’m not trying to empathize or anything, I just- You said something during dinner, with Niko, and I was thinking about it.”

“So you want to dig at my traumatic past, but it’s okay because it’s just out of curiosity?”

Eve shrugs under the scrutiny. “Don’t you prefer it that way?”

The question seems to catch Oksana by surprise. Eve is pretty sure she didn’t expect her to understand that about her. But she’s made it abundantly clear by now, hasn’t she?

“Yes. I do,” she confirms slowly. A small smile settles on her face. “Go on, then. Ask away.”

“You’re an orphan.” Eve hates how dramatic that always sounds. Oksana just nods. “But at dinner you said… your entire family is dead.”

“You’re wondering about all the other ones?”

Is Oksana’s callous tone meant to be a jab at Eve’s lack of tact? “Well, yeah.”

Oksana sighs theatrically. “Fine. Father cut off all contact with his side of the family before I was ever born. Supposedly they were a raggedy bunch from deep in rural Russia and he wanted to distance himself from that image when he made a name for himself.”

“So all the family money, he made that on his own?”

“Yes, I am a _nouveau riche_ , any other incisive commentary?” Eve shakes her head, feeling chastised. “Mother’s side drew back after she died. Especially after Pyotr.”

“Pyotr?”

“My brother. Two years younger than me, and very annoying. Always wanted to play with me, but if I laid a finger on him he’d go running back to mother, blubbering and getting snot all over his clothes.” Her nose wrinkles at the memory, like there is still a very real possibility of that snot getting on her. “He was a very sensitive child. Mother always took his side and wouldn’t let father discipline him. I was father’s favourite,” she adds as an afterthought, seeming quite proud of it.

“When mother got sick, Pyotr must have been five or six years old. He was convinced that I had poisoned her; he was too young to understand how cancer works, I guess. After she died, my grandparents tried to take Pyotr away from us, to ‘keep him safe.’” She scoffs. Her eyes have got an odd sheen to them, an emotion that is barely restrained. She looks upset. Angry. “He filled their heads with lies about father. He was only angry, because father never paid much attention to mother during her illness. He was too busy with his work and his mistresses. But our grandparents were sure little Pyotr would get beaten bloody without his mother around to protect him.”

“When father found out, he was furious.” This makes her laugh, for some reason, a hollow sound. The sheen in her eyes is now a growing brightness, like tears preparing to drop, but Oksana doesn’t seem to want to stop, and Eve is a bit afraid to intervene. “We never saw them again, weren’t allowed to even mention them around him. So for some time, it was just the three of us. And all the house staff, of course, maids and butlers and cooks and nannies.”

“A few years later, as soon as he was old enough, father sent him to a boarding school far away. Usually the boy inherits the family business, but I could tell father had already given up on him. He never got any tougher after mother was gone, so I suppose it wasn’t her fault after all. He was just like that.”

She seems to have calmed down a bit. She pauses, takes another swig of the champagne. Eve realizes how tense she has become and tries to relax her muscles.

“What happened to him?” she asks in a voice that sounds uncharacteristically weak.

“Officially, he’s dead.” Officially? Eve’s mind begins to buzz with horrible thoughts. Would his father kill him and cover it up, somehow? It feels wrong to think it of someone that clearly Oksana loved, even if her description makes him seem like less than an ideal parent.

“When he was sixteen, he was let out of school for the summer break. They took him to the train station and he never arrived home. There was some searching, but he was never found, so in the end he was declared dead. Either he’d run off, in which case father wanted nothing more to do with him, or something had happened to him, in which case there was no point in tracking him down. So father washed his hands clean of it and never mentioned him again. And then father died a few months later,” she concludes abruptly, taking another drink before returning the bottle to Eve.

Eve doesn’t reach for it. She doesn’t move. She watches Oksana’s face for any sign, any hint of what she’s feeling. Oksana seems to realize it and sets the bottle carefully on the floor before offering an entirely emotionless smile, a mirthless little huff of a laugh.

Her eyes still shine brightly, as unreadable as she’s ever been. Eve can understand the anger. She could understand much more of it. Anger is so much easier to cradle and hold inside yourself than pain, or sadness, or fear. They make you feel helpless, but anger is different. Anger drives you. Guides you. Makes you feel powerful.

She doesn’t want Oksana to ever feel helpless. Some part of her is glad that her family is gone and she has the chance to start anew, without pressure or expectations. Another part of her wonders whether Oksana was like this before, back in Russia under the shadow of her father. This vibrant and cheeky and unstoppable girl.

She leans forward, towards Oksana, who doesn’t move to meet or avoid her, only watches her. Her hand rises, crosses the space between them, rests gently on Oksana’s cheek. She gazes into her eyes, which have lost their steely glint and are now wide and searching and almost confused.

She isn’t sure what she wants to do. She digs inside herself, goes as deep as she can, but all she finds is that she wants to do _something_. To act. To not be helpless. Her heartbeat drums against her ribs, flooding her with adrenaline.

She lets her hand drop back to her side, looks down towards the champagne just to avoid contact with those deep green eyes that can give away so much and so little.

“Did that satisfy your curiosity?” Oksana asks, her voice already back to its usual airy tones, bouncy and playful as she brings the moment to an end.

Eve gathers herself, pushes down all the confusing thoughts and emotions she’ll need much more time to process, and offers up a smile. “Yeah, definitely cleared that one up. Now we should probably go pack, before we miss our flight.”

Oksana rolls her eyes. “I’d just book us another one.”

“Of course you would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The research for this chapter made me want to take a fancy expensive vacation so badly. Too bad I couldn't afford it even if we weren't in a pandemic lol
> 
> Come check me out on twitter @evesaxe, I'm always up for a hello ^^


	5. A touch of spleen

“You’re alive!” is the first thing Niko says, right there at arrivals, before he even reaches for Eve’s bag. “I was beginning to think my wife had been kidnapped out there.”

Oksana has already left with her own ride, but Eve stayed behind to collect her luggage like one of the mere mortals. The notion that she didn’t want it taken directly to her home caused some stir with the flight crew, although they bustled to fulfil her strange and unfathomable wish to wait with the masses.

“Sorry, I meant to call or something, but there was literally not one moment of peace.”

Despite her best efforts and mental notes, she didn’t think to contact Niko until they were at the airport and he texted her to confirm her flight number and landing time. She runs her hands through her hair and tries her best to sound apologetic.

“That rough?” Niko asks with just a hint of amusement, which is already good enough for her. Clearly he’s on the path to forgiving and forgetting.

“I just want to sleep for twelve hours,” she admits, stretching out the last word into a groan. It isn’t a lie, either. Now that the constant stimulation of the weekend is gone, and Oksana is off headed to her own flat, it’s like all the energy holding Eve up has been drained and left her feeling like she’s run a few consecutive marathons.

All the drinking probably didn’t help either.

Niko laughs sympathetically and reaches out to wrap his arm around her. She leans on him, probably a bit more heavily than he’d like, and they walk the rest of the way to the car.

“Are you hungry?” he asks as they fasten their seatbelts and the engine comes to life. The car is an old beat up thing that they use sparingly, usually for cross-country trips or airport pickups. “There’s some leftovers I can heat up.”

“No, it’s okay, I ate on the plane.”

“Was it any good?”

“Oh, it was amazing,” she breathes out.

Niko gives a little ‘It figures’ tilt of his head. “The rich do live it up.”

“You have no idea.”

“Tell me all about it,” he says, sounding genuinely interested. Eve guesses she’d be interested too, if he was the one who went off on a wild weekend with a super-rich guy and didn’t say a word to her the whole time.

Thinking about it, the possibility of anything like that ever happening forms such a ridiculous alternate reality in Eve’s mind that she almost bursts out laughing.

“Right now?” she asks, controlling herself until the random hysteria passes. She really is tired. And the thought of putting the weekend into words and speaking them all out loud and answering follow-up questions is exhausting in itself.

“We have time.” He nods at the long stretch of the A4 that still sits between them and home.

“I don’t know, it was just… Lots of shopping, fancy restaurants. Champagne.”

“Champagne?” The question carries more surprise than curiosity.

“Room service champagne,” she elaborates with a growing grin. It sounds so eccentric when she says it to Niko, who isn’t ultra-rich and young and worldly.

“Oh wow, room service!” he plays along, also beginning to smile.

“That’s not the half of it.” She leans closer to him, lowering her voice accordingly. “I raided the minibar.”

“Downright decadent!”

“I had a 20-euro pack of cashews,” she admits with a thrill. Niko barks out a laugh.

(...)

She stays home on Monday. She really did try to get up with her alarm and jam herself into a packed subway car and spend all day in her office with her piles of papers, but she was just so tired and her bed was so cosy and suddenly the thought of all the little indignities of her daily life was much more unbearable than usual.

She supposes it wouldn’t be a real trip to France if you didn’t come back home with a serious case of _ennui._

And she doesn’t even have classes on Monday, so it’s a victimless crime.

Niko fixes his tie, leans down for a kiss and walks off. Eve rolls over in bed, tugs on the covers until they’re securely bunched up under her chin and goes right back to sleep.

She wakes up again a few hours later and this time does manage to leave the bed. She goes downstairs, makes herself some tea, curls up on the sofa to watch the rain outside pour down in thick sheets. What a miserable day.

She can’t believe it took her less than two days to get used to the snob’s lifestyle. She thinks longingly of fish dinners by the sea, of limitless credit cards, of the entire suitcase of clothes she let Oksana take to her own flat, because she couldn’t – and still can’t, even with a rested mind – come up with a reasonable explanation to give for it to Niko.

“Oh, those? They’re just the piles and piles of designer clothes and accessories my fun rich student bought for me. And also stole for me, just because.”

He’d probably make her return it, leave it at Oksana’s flat permanently. Say it’s too much, that _of course_ she can’t take it, no matter how crazy and lavish and absolutely unaffected by the expense the girl might be.

And can they focus on that for a second? Oksana isn’t just rich. She is really, really loaded. She throws money around like it means nothing to her. Whatever businesses her father built, they are clearly pretty successful. Eve wonders if she could find some Astankov Industries or Astankov Conglomerate or something if she googled the name.

The rain keeps falling, so thick that it forms a kind of shapeless fog. Eve’s hands, absently running over the hem of her old t-shirt, find a brand new hole on the side. She sighs.

She kind of wishes she had that dress with her. The black and white one, that Oksana picked out especially. Since she’s alone anyway, she could put it on, and some nice heels, pour herself a glass of wine – they should have the good stuff hidden away in the back of some cupboard -, maybe play some nice music. It would feel a little weird to be walking around her familiar comfy home in the getup, but she isn’t ready to give up the dream she lived in Marseilles quite yet.

She drinks the rest of her tea. It’s gone cold.

(...)

Tuesday is a little more manageable. The rain clouds of the previous day have become an amorphous grey cover across the sky, ugly but dry. The dream of the weekend has died down in Eve’s memory until it really is like a dream, far-off and hazy. Unreal.

Reality is this, the same as it’s been for the past decade. The crowded subway is annoying, sure, but it’s also the only way to get to work, so it’ll have to do, as it always has.

So this time, she actually manages to get out of bed and out of the house and into a familiar crowded classroom, where she spends half her lecture trying to mentally estimate how many unread e-mails sit in her work inbox. 30? If it was a slow weekend, maybe. But with evaluations coming up, probably closer to 40. 50 if her luck has completely abandoned her. Hopefully most of them are pointless newsletters.

She finishes up ten minutes early. Despite the lost discussion time, the students mostly seem thankful. It’s comforting to know she will never be the only one eager to get done with class, even if she _is_ the one teaching it.

Oksana remains seated as the crowd around them disperses, then approaches Eve’s desk. She’s in a flowery dress that seems a little too cold, like she’s intent on pretending they’re still in sunny Marseilles and not dreary grey London.

“I came by the office yesterday.”

“You did?” Eve knows she sounds a little too surprised, especially once Oksana’s face begins to close up, as she always does when she’s caught as the vulnerable party in the conversation.

She just thought… Well, she didn’t even think about it, to be honest. Her Monday was entirely taken up by her struggle with the horrors of daily life. But now that she does think about it, she realizes she expected Oksana to put up some distance again. Leave Eve to stew in her absence for at least a few days. It must be a good sign that she hasn’t bothered with that game, or it will be if Eve doesn’t immediately ruin it with her shock.

“I thought you’d have wanted a day off from me after a whole weekend together.”

Oksana’s eyes don’t exactly come alive at the words, which Eve admits probably aren’t the best ones to smooth things over.

“You weren’t there,” she carries on like Eve never interrupted.

“I was just a little… under the weather.” It sounds like an excuse she’d give a blind date that she skipped out on when she saw how ugly he was through the restaurant window.

“Are you ill?” Eve isn’t sure whether Oksana sounds sceptical or just grossed out at the thought.

“No, just a touch of spleen.” That’s one way to spin becoming spoiled in record time. As she registers Oksana’s blank face, she realizes the reference is probably not universal. “Not actual-”

“I understand spleen,” the girl cuts in wearily. “ _Les Fleurs du Mal_. Deep melancholy; existential dread.”

“I guess no French lover would skip Baudelaire.” She gives a little awkward laugh, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Oksana can be so eerily intense without even doing anything.

“Why did my weekend give you spleen?” Not _the_ weekend. _My_ weekend. The weekend she offered to Eve, like a present. Like a taste.

“It ended,” Eve admits with a resigned shrug. That seems to do it. Oksana tilts her head, a pleased smile spreading on her face as she finally hears what she wanted. “Why did you come by yesterday?”

“I wanted to tell you.” The cold distance is gone in a flash and she is back to the playful Oksana of the weekend. She steps a little closer and runs her hands along the collar of Eve’s shirt, fixing it with minute care. “I’ve decided you are fun. Well, more fun than boring.”

“I didn’t realize my weekend performance was being graded.” It’s so easy to step back into bantering, to return Oksana’s wit in kind.

“It was.” Finally done with the collar, Oksana’s hand rests on Eve’s shoulder for a while, then slides off of her and back to Oksana’s side. “And you passed.”

“With flying colours?”

“Don’t push it.” That one gets a laugh out of Eve, which in turn gets a smirk out of Oksana.

The girl turns around, headed for the exit, but looks over her shoulder, clearly expecting Eve to follow. She packs the rest of her things and complies.

“When are you coming over?”

Eve’s steps stutter a little as the question sends a jolt through her, which she does her best to conceal. When she fails to respond, Oksana turns her face around—why does she keep doing that when they’re walking?—and studies her with a single arched brow.

“Your clothes are taking up a lot of space.”

Oh. Right.

Right.

The clothes. What is she supposed to do about the clothes? She doesn’t even have the closet space for them.

“Are they a bother?” Oksana stops walking at that, thankfully, and devotes her full attention to Eve. “I was thinking that maybe we could just… keep them there? If you can spare the space.”

“You’re not going to wear them?”

They’re a few doors down from Eve’s office and she would love to continue this conversation in its relative privacy, but she also doesn’t want to whip out the old ‘Can we not talk about this here?’, especially with Oksana, who is nothing if not purposely difficult.

“No, I am. I want to. It’s just…” She lets the sentence die out to nothing. Life gets in the way. But that’s a very dramatic way to talk about clothes.

“Niko,” Oksana finishes for her. Not Mr. Polastri. Is that better or worse?

“It’s just hard to explain,” Eve tries again. It isn’t his fault that he’s come to expect a certain person with certain behaviours and that ‘This is what I want now’ isn’t a universally accepted explanation. God, she wishes it was, it would make life so much easier.

“Then don’t.” Of course that’s Oksana’s response. Of course it’s that simple to her. “You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone.”

_Did you apply that philosophy with your father?_

Horrible thing to say. Say anything but that. Avoid the topic of the dead overbearing father.

“That’s nice in principle, but being married doesn’t really work like that.”

Eve catches the beginning of an eye roll before Oksana turns back around and walks the last few steps to her office, leaning against the wall by the locked door and fixing Eve with an impatient gaze. She takes her time joining her, because she isn’t sure how to continue the conversation past Oksana’s wilful lack of understanding of the compromises essential for any interpersonal relationship. 

“Are you going to revoke my fun-person status?” she finally asks, key already turning in the lock.

Oksana is behind her, still peeling herself off the wall when she answers, “I like you better when he isn’t on your mind.”

Eve feels the jab of the words, but doesn’t acknowledge them. She shuffles things around on her desk until there is some semblance of order to it, but she can’t achieve much just by rearranging.

“Come over tonight,” Oksana offers.

Maybe she should just throw it all away. Start over. Anything she needs she can print again, it’s not like it’s the decision that’ll make or break the rainforest.

“I’ll order something for dinner and you can wear whatever you’d like.”

She likes the plan. She likes it a lot. There is a growing desire inside of her to be unpredictable, to make decisions on a whim. That black and white dress sits somewhere in Oksana’s flat and Eve could be there too in just a few hours, feel the fabric under her fingers again, slip into its perfect shape.

“That’s too short-notice. Niko probably already defrosted something.”

Eve is pretty sure she’s never been the target of one of Oksana’s looks of pure contempt. She’s observed it, aimed at parents with crying babies or people who try to approach her in public, or one time that guy busking at the park, but never at herself. Until now.

“Is _that_ how being married works?”

God, why is Oksana so _frustrating_? Eve knows, she is perfectly aware, that her life is boring. That she has things holding her down, keeping her in place, limitations that just don’t exist for someone like Oksana. So why does Oksana have to keep pointing it out, and acting like the walls that life has built for Eve are nothing but a house of cards, something she can knock down with a single touch?

“Yes, actually, it is. When someone makes preparations and comes home early to cook you a nice, loving meal, you don’t just skip it.”

“Well, far be it from me to intrude on your idyllic suburban evening.”

Oksana must know that Eve would rather be with her tonight. But she’s just too much of a brat to accept that things don’t always go her way. Eve bites her tongue and focuses on turning on her computer, catching up on Monday’s work.

“Another day, then,” Oksana says once the silence has dragged on long enough. She fishes a paper out of her bag and drops it on Eve’s desk. “My number. It’s easier than e-mail.”

Eve waits until she’s gone to look at what Oksana has left behind. It isn’t a business card, like she expected, but rather a crumpled piece of paper, uneven, like she ripped out a corner of a page. She’s scribbled her number across it, the digits loopy and uneven.

She won’t cancel dinner with Niko.

She won’t.

But oh, she wants to.

(...)

Eve doesn’t go to Oksana’s flat on Tuesday.

True to her word, she resists temptation. Doesn’t even save Oksana’s number in her phone. The piece of paper sits unused in her pocket all through the day, as she does her best to focus on work.

When she gets home, she finds Niko on the sofa, a beer in his hand and his full attention on the TV. She walks into the living room, leans against the back of the sofa and wraps her arms around him, dropping a kiss on his cheek. He hums appreciatively, leans against the touch.

“Welcome home, my darling wife,” he drawls out. She chuckles at the epithet.

“And what is my dearest husband watching?” She feels the vibrations of Niko’s silent laughter. It does sound a little weirder when she does it.

“Tail end of a football match. Ten minutes left on the clock, probably two more for stoppage.” He drags his eyes away from the screen to glance her way. “You can think on what you want for dinner in the meantime.”

“For dinner?”

“Yeah, I felt like ordering in tonight. How do you feel about Indian? We haven’t had it in a while.”

Eve feels Niko stiffen under her grip as it involuntarily begins to tighten.

“Are you enthusiastic about the Indian or about to strangle me?” Niko quips, a little out of breath. She lets go with a gasp and he coughs out another laugh. “We can also do Italian, if you feel so strongly about this.”

Eve goes to Oksana’s flat on Wednesday.

The excuse she offers Niko is, in its essence, technically true: some of her stuff ended up in Oksana’s luggage and while she suggested that Oksana just bring it by her office, the girl insisted on making a whole event of it.

Technically true. Mostly true. True with some creative license.

True enough.

The flat is amazing, just as swanky yet unique as its owner. The downstairs is one single large room—maybe Oksana’s comment on open plan really was genuine—, consisting of a vast living room area with not much in it but a huge sofa that looks more like a bed than anything, a set of stairs that must lead up to the actual bedroom and a kitchen on the farthest side from the entrance.

There’s nothing resembling a dining space, or even a table for that matter. The closest thing is the kitchen island, with three chairs neatly lined against it. There are also a couple of end tables, but they are weighed down with too much clutter to qualify as a dining surface.

That’s what really gives the place its charm, Eve realizes. The large shelves that line the wall by the entrance are filled with some books, but mostly an eclectic assortment of souvenirs and sculptures and random objects that must have sentimental value. The sofa faces a pair of floor-to-ceiling windows that flood the place with light in the daytime and the wall behind it is decorated with a varied selection of artworks, from clearly expensive paintings to vintage movie posters.

Most rich people homes are so carefully curated to create the perfect harmonious style, every item matching the tone. It makes it feel so cold and artificial. Oksana’s flat, in all its elegant chaos, feels so much more alive.

“It has a definite personality,” Eve comments, and hopes Oksana understands how deeply she means the compliment. “Did you decorate it yourself?”

Oksana shrugs as she studies the room, as though she is only noticing it now, but Eve can tell she is pleased at the approval.

“They’re gifts, things I bring from my travels, whatever catches my eye. Sometimes I’ll send some of it back to Moscow; the place only has so much room.”

She heads to a spot on the shelves to pick up a small object. Eve approaches to find it’s a snow globe, something you’d find at any old tourist shop. Inside it is the cathedral they only saw at a distance back at Marseilles, perched atop a hill, as they walked back to the hotel after lunch.

“If you’d given up on the pool, we could have visited that,” Eve remarks without malice, reaching out a hand where Oksana deposits the globe. She shakes it and watches the snow fall. It seems a strange choice of souvenir for somewhere so Mediterranean, so it figures that Oksana would choose it.

“I liked the pool,” Oksana says, her tone somehow intense yet maintaining its previous lightness. Like she’s saying, at the surface, that she liked the swimming, and underneath that, that she liked the moment. Eve’s mind flashes back to the feel of Oksana’s cheek under her palm, of Oksana, warm and pliant. “And we can see it next time.”

Next time. Next year? Before that? Can Eve find a good excuse to give Niko, if it isn’t in the name of distracting Oksana from her terrible family history?

“I’d rather go somewhere else next time.”

Oksana smiles, takes the snow globe back. She turns to the stairs and Eve follows, curious to see the rest of the place.

Upstairs consists of a short corridor ending in a bathroom and containing one door on each side. To the right is the bedroom, which Oksana doesn’t enter, though Eve can get a glimpse through the open door. It’s got a bed wide enough to make the downstairs sofa look like just a sofa, and most of the hardwood floor is covered by an impossibly plush carpet that fills Eve with the desire to take off her socks and bury her feet in it.

To the left is a room that must once have been another bedroom, or maybe a study, but which has clearly undergone some renovation to now be a walk-in closet, in the absence of one already available and actually connected to the bedroom. Along every wall are racks of clothes, in the centre is a low structure of shelves that is almost entirely filled with shoes. In one corner, a little separated from the rest, are the clothes that Eve recognizes as hers. Well, paid for by Oksana and given to her.

In this room-sized closet containing more clothing than some small boutiques, all the stuff that she brought back from Marseilles and which filled a whole carry-on, now actually seems… not that much. It gets Eve dreaming, for a second, of bringing it back home and stuffing it in a corner somewhere, until she remembers the size of her actual wardrobe at home. Which she shares with Niko.

She spends some time browsing, only because she doesn’t want to make it clear how much she’s been thinking about it, but she knows what she wants from the moment she steps into the room. The black and white dress awaits her, seeming to stand out from between its companions.

Oksana is silent, studying her own clothes. She is already in a gorgeous patterned suit, no need to get changed, and the thought that soon Eve won’t be pitifully underdressed and will instead match her hostess in elegance fills her with some unidentifiable emotion. A rush.

When Eve stops stalling and picks out the dress, Oksana is right behind her. She smiles approvingly.

They stay in for dinner, like Oksana offered, but it’s nothing like with Niko. They have sushi, from a place so exclusive that its reservations are usually backed up for months. Eve is pretty sure they don’t even do deliveries.

She doesn’t ask, because she’s sure she’ll get some story of how the head chef owes Oksana a favour, or she paid for the sushi in diamonds, or her security team threatened to beat someone up if they didn’t comply. All very elite and decadent and told in that infuriatingly unimpressed tone of hers.

She assumes they’ll be eating at the island, but Oksana surprises her once more by setting the food on the sofa and promptly sitting down on the floor, just within reach. The two bottles of sake that came with the meal, hopefully more a generous concession than the recommended dose, are placed on one of the packed end tables, which Oksana clears up by carelessly relocating everything to the floor, then drags over to where they’re sitting.

There’s no TV to play mindlessly in the background and steal their attention, not even a radio or other source of music anywhere in sight. Instead of the usual distractions, Oksana stops between bites to point out each decoration and, one by one, explain where she got it and why. The stories paint an endlessly entertaining and fascinating picture of her life in the past years.

Eve never wants the night to end. She eats as slowly as she can manage, pauses again and again to take minute sips of the sake. It’s a little silly. It’s not like Oksana is going to kick her out as soon as the last bit of rice has been tucked away.

But how long can she justify staying, once the excuse of the meal is gone? It’s one thing to say she was roped into dinner, but she can’t really go home at two in the morning and claim that… What? Oksana wouldn’t stop talking?

Eventually, they finish eating, and a few moments later Oksana finishes her latest story. She doesn’t begin another one. They sit, their extremely expensive clothes right on the carpet, their feet in nothing but socks somewhat ruining the elegant aura and making it all feel so cosy. Eve fiddles with the bracelet of the watch Oksana has lent her, much fancier than her own and, admittedly, a better fit for the dress.

The sake, which she ended drinking a lot more of than she planned as a side effect of all that stalling, has already begun spreading through her, driving warmth to her cheeks and limbs. She’s sure she’ll feel the familiar hint of dizziness once she gets up from where she’s so comfortably settled. It makes her want to go home even less, makes her senses focus only on Oksana, her voice, her smile, her scent, her fingers delicately wrapped around the glass she is draining.

“How is your spleen?” Oksana asks, and for a moment Eve takes the question at face value and wonders whether she might not be much drunker than she thought. Then she remembers, and snorts a little at her own confusion.

“It’s better.”

“Yes?” Eve nods, returns the smile that Oksana offers. For once, she doesn’t look teasing or mocking, but just happy. “Because I have champagne in the fridge, if you think that might help.”

“You really love your champagne, don’t you?”

Oksana hums as she nods. “Especially if it’s unlawfully obtained,” she adds with mischievous raised brows. “But I can assure you that this one was purchased, with my own money. I know you sometimes take issue with the... creative approach.”

_Creative approach_? Eve laughs at the phrasing, reaches out to her glass for another sip, mostly out of habit at this point. Then she tips it towards Oksana. “I think the sake is doing enough helping.”

“Are you sure?” Oksana leans forward, closer, and her perfume grows stronger around Eve. “Would you like something else? A gin and tonic?”

The idea isn’t unappealing. They’d probably have to get up, because Eve won’t commit to more drinking until she’s gauged her level of drunkenness more reliably, and maybe she’d prefer to move to the island, or actually sit on the sofa. And one drink after dinner is common practice, nothing too unusual about that, even if it might be a weekday.

“Do you have gin?” she asks non-committally. She rests an arm on the sofa and pulls herself up, taking a moment to brush away any wrinkles on the dress. A little swaying ensues, but nothing too concerning. With a few breaths and steadying blinks, she’s back to her usual balance.

“No,” Oksana answers from the carpet. She looks up at Eve with a playful grin that makes her look her age once more. “But I know a lovely place nearby.”

“On a Wednesday?”

Oksana shrugs, but offers no justification or excuse. To her, there probably is no need for one. If she wants to go out on a Wednesday, she will.

“It’s already a little late.”

“The perfect time to go out.”

Oksana is still sitting down, and somehow the fact that she doesn’t even bother to get up to discuss this tells Eve how little she doubts her ability to win the argument.

“Don’t you have to get up early tomorrow?”

“My first class of the day is yours. We’ll suffer together,” she adds in a whimsical tone, tilting her head and offering the beginning of a pout.

“But not equally.” Eve scoffs because really, a 20-year-old and someone nearing 40 are not going to experience a sleep-deprived hangover in the same way. Oksana’s brow quirks, like she’s questioning Eve’s image of herself as an old woman.

“Come on, Eve. You know you want to.”

She does. The hangover is a distant promise of tomorrow, hours and hours away. The longer she stays up, the longer she puts it off. The more fun she has, the more it’s justified. Right?

She sighs. Just a sigh. Doesn’t even open her mouth. But suddenly Oksana is on her feet, springing up and tilting forwards into Eve in the process, until she is a breath away. A thin, shaky breath away.

“I’ll call the car,” she whispers into Eve’s lips.

The voice of reason inside Eve’s mind pipes up for once. “Actually, let’s walk.” She could definitely use the fresh air.

Outside, they walk down reasonably populated streets, still in their impeccable attire, and Eve wonders whether anyone would think they’re a couple. They’ve got the suit-dress thing going on, and although they aren’t strictly touching, they are walking very closely together, arms almost brushing with each step. There’s always the age difference, but Eve is pretty sure that nobody other than a Sebastian would buy that they’re related.

A thought begins to crystallize in her mind and Eve realizes in a moment of clarity that she doesn’t want to inspect it any closer, so she shoves it down deep until it’s at the very edge of her consciousness, where it belongs.

She studies the streets around them, watching the people that walk by, until she realizes something.

“That bar you took me to,” she blurts out. Oksana slows down to listen, not seeming particularly concerned at what’s coming. “It isn’t around here at all.”

Eve remembers the address, the subway stop. It’s at least 20 minutes away, and that’s with no traffic. It completely slipped her mind when she walked Oksana home, but suddenly she’s noticed the incongruence. Oksana lied to her face and picked that specific bar, probably because it was quiet and secluded and had just the right dark nooks.

Well, Eve already figured out what her intentions were that night. It’s just a cheeky new detail, really.

By her side, Oksana laughs as she speeds up again. “No, it isn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eve is seriously such an interesting character to write, with all her nuances. What do you think of my Eve?
> 
> Come say hi or just lurk a bit on twitter @evesaxe ^^


	6. Villanelle

Eve isn’t doing anything wrong.

Some people would argue that one only begins to make these kinds of statements when the possibility of wrongdoing has gone from the hazy background of daily life to a very concrete and well-defined scenario looming just within reach.

But those people would be incorrect, and probably not very fun at parties, because _Eve_ _isn’t doing anything wrong_.

None of what she’s doing is wrong. It’s new, sure. Unexpected, for many. She’s behaving differently. She sees it on Niko’s face when she puts on her coat to leave after dinner, hears it in his voice when she calls to let him know not to wait up, even reads it in his text messages, which have always been succinct but now tend to dip to downright terse.

So he has a problem with it. Or enough of a problem to hint at frustration, but still not enough to voice it. Of course not; when has Niko ever vocally had a problem with anything? Usually he just compromises, or passive-aggressively makes his way around the issue.

If he has a problem, then he is welcome to it. After all, she’s doing nothing wrong.

She’s just having fun. Oh, so much fun. Because that is what being with Oksana is like, all the time. It’s just fun. It’s fresh and chaotic and it takes all of Eve’s brain, for what feels like the first time in years and years, to actually keep up with her.

All of Eve’s senses are filled. After dull rooms and dull food and dull conversations and dull clothing, everything in Oksana’s world screams colour and sensation and excitement. She never _ever_ does anything the boring way, and she never does what is expected.

Oksana isn’t just chaotic; she is outright erratic. Unpredictable, even to herself, it seems. If she wants something, she’ll just go out and do it, no wondering or questioning. It’s like all the willpower she has ever had to hold herself back has been spent on attending school, and the rest of the time, she coasts by, does what she wants, nothing more and nothing less.

She is a genius, Eve realizes. She has to be. It’s the only way someone that unfocused could have such academic success. She must have a massive intellect, an endless ability to absorb information, condense it, communicate it.

And she wanted Eve. Still wants her. She picked her out, first probably as just the target of some malicious joke, but now as more than that. As someone to open up to, to share her nights with, to find interesting.

Oksana is beautiful and fascinating and transcendental and she finds Eve all of these things in turn. It’s intoxicating.

They meet at the office, where Eve works and Oksana absently scribbles out whatever assignments she might have, if she’s feeling so inclined, or otherwise just provides a destabilizing presence. Asks questions until Eve is distracted, flips through papers and makes endless comments, picks a random book and begins to read it, from cover to cover, constantly making the strangest faces, until Eve finds herself completely distracted from her computer screen and simply watching the display.

They meet after work, for take-out at the apartment or dinner at some luxurious restaurant. From there to the hippest bar, or one of the regular ones that Oksana prefers, for a few rounds of drinks. Sometimes Oksana insists on attaching themselves to a pair of eligible men who then foot the bill for the rest of the evening. Sometimes she’ll want to go somewhere with dancing, though she never does it herself, only sits back and watches Eve. Sometimes she’ll want somewhere quiet, where they can sit and drink and talk.

Afterwards, in the harsh light of morning, as Eve feels her temple throb with every heartbeat and every word she speaks, their eyes meet across the length of the classroom. Oksana always sits there, as fresh as if nothing had happened the previous night. Oh, Eve envies her 20-year-old body.

That’s the usual routine, but there are some breaks. Oksana won’t always want to leave the apartment, so on occasion they’ll just stay there and entertain themselves. They’ll watch something on her laptop or Eve will read a book from Oksana’s eclectic collection, something she’s never heard of before, while the girl is happy to sit and watch her. They sometimes try cooking, but Oksana keeps a terribly-stocked fridge and neither of them is talented in the kitchen, so their few experiences usually end up in failure.

Other times, Oksana wants to be naughty. That’s how she describes it, “naughty”. The naughty deeds include but are not limited to: stealing a signpost; teaching Eve to pick locks through field experience; orchestrating a break-up for some couple that catches her eye; prank calls (yes, really); insurance fraud, possibly? All Eve knows is that she stopped Oksana from jumping in front of a slow-moving car and then dragged her away for several streets so she wouldn’t be tempted to try again.

Eve just feels like so much is happening at once, like life is rushing at her without a moment’s pause, and it’s the most alive she’s felt in ages.

When she’s home, it’s like everything dies down. Even when there’s no drinking, her whole domestic life feels like a constant hangover. She has to sit down to shepherd’s pie and whatever’s on TV and Niko reading his novels in bed, humming into his moustache every couple of pages. She tries to hide out in her little office, pretend she has work to do, but the walls all seem to be closing in on her and she misses the wide open-plan living room with enough space to run laps around the sofa.

When she’s home, she’s reminded of what she should be doing, of what she’s expected to do, of the time she needs to spend with her husband, of how he wants to be spoken to and remembered and touched, and the guilt and pressure of it drives the nausea deeper in. Just like a hangover. She hates being reminded.

She makes an effort. She grades papers in the living room, so they’ll be together in the evening. It’s not as easy to concentrate as in the office, because the low volume of the TV is still louder than the silence she could be enjoying, and the lack of privacy means she can’t shift a hand under her pyjama pants when she gets bored. Maybe after Niko goes up to bed.

She shifts in her chair and sighs at the essay in her hands. “Amanda, I have told you a million times to justify your statements,” she mutters under her breath, pen hand already underlining.

“Not looking good?” Niko pipes up, eyes momentarily leaving the TV to fix on her curiously.

This is the other bit that’s unfortunate. The distracting conversation.

“It’s just one of my students, Amanda, she keeps forgetting to support her thesis with quotes from the books.” She shakes her head then, encouraged by Niko’s sustained attention, carries on. “She clearly knows what she’s talking about, and even references some scenes, but if she doesn’t get the quotes on there, I just have to penalize her. It’s actually a really interesting thesis she went for.”

“Is it?” Niko asks. He glances at the TV, then back at her.

“Yeah, she’s saying that the characters in _East of Eden_ are presented in contrasting pairs, starting from the myth of Cain and Abel and branching out. The Cain and Abel bit is obvious, that’s right in the text, but all these other connections she’s making really show an advanced understanding.”

She’s looking at the essay now, engrossed in the description. She should talk to Amanda about this, there might be room to stretch it into a publication and get the girl’s name on it. Niko hums, reminding her to go on.

“So, for example, she goes on from the brothers to focus for a bit on Cathy’s journey, and in the end, she ties it back in with- Niko?” She realizes his eyes are back to the TV, and he isn’t responding. “Niko, are you listening?”

“Hmm? Oh, sorry, the show was just-”

“Why did you ask if you weren’t going to listen?”

“I was, at first, but I just got… a bit lost, halfway through there.”

“Oh, well, sorry to distract you from your entertainment with all my talking.”

Niko sits up straight, probably sensing the beginning of an argument. Eve senses it too, and it does a good job of ruining her already sour mood.

“It’s not like that. I’ve just had a long day, it’s hard to focus on anything very complex.”

“I thought the point of me being here with you was that we could talk.”

“Yes, about our days. Anything interesting that happened, anything we’re looking forward to, what’s got our interest at the moment. You know, personal conversations. Not… the kind of thing you’d talk about with Bill.”

“So now this is about Bill again?”

Niko sighs. Oh, how terrible that Eve is making his tantrum more difficult for him.

“It’s not about Bill. I just wish we’d talk about something besides work.” He reaches for the remote to turn off the TV and holds up a hand to keep Eve from replying quite yet. He takes in one breath, then another, then looks at her with a face that is no longer argumentative, but just a little sad. “I feel like we haven’t been connecting lately. Like you’re so far away.”

“I’m right here.”

It’s a predictable, cliché response, and his reaction tells her as much. She holds back, doesn’t pick a fight again. The guilty side of her wins over the angry side and she presses her lips together into a frown at the sight of a hurt and insecure Niko.

“You’re here now. Tonight. But you’re working, and when I go up to bed you’ll still be working, won’t you?”

“I’m behind on-”

“Eve. Please be honest with me.” He pauses to collect himself, put his thoughts in order, go through something that he’s clearly been keeping inside for a while. So he’s finally moved beyond passivity.

That’s mean. He’s a good man. She’s just been impatient lately.

“You and your student, Oksana. I don’t think… I’m not sure she’s good for you.”

Her heart hammers in her chest at the words. To hear him talk about Oksana like that makes her skin prickle. He doesn’t know her. He has no right.

“I’m glad you’re helping her, and I know it’s out of kindness. I know how kind you are. But I feel… Well, there’s no manly way to say this, I suppose, but I feel put aside.”

Her heart is still racing. They’re unfair accusations, she knows they are. She’s not saving anything for Oksana, she’s just stepping back. Back into a truer version of herself. A version that Niko doesn’t seem to like quite as much as the one he’s dreamed up. If Oksana disappeared tomorrow, Eve would feel and act exactly the same.

“Put aside? You’re that threatened by any part of my life that doesn’t involve you? First Bill, now Oksana, what’s next? Are you going to be jealous of my dentist because I see him twice a year?”

“You can have a life outside of me, obviously, but I want to fit _somewhere_ in your life.”

“I am here! I am here tonight, I am here every night, this is my home, where I go to sleep, where I wake up. Where I make coffee and watch TV and brush my teeth. How can you say you don’t fit in my life?”

“Because you’re here but you’re not really here. Not really with me.”

“You’re delusional!” They’re both yelling at this point, but she doesn’t really care about the neighbours. It feels good to yell, to let it out somehow. “Look at you, you’re jealous over some college kid. A kid that I am only helping because you suggested it in the first place. I didn’t even want to do it, but you talked me into it.”

“Eve, we have been married far too long for you to claim I could ‘talk you into’ anything you didn’t want to do.”

“Then you’ll know that if I didn’t want you in my life I wouldn’t be here.”

He sits there, silent, on the edge of the sofa. No reply. Eve isn’t sure whether he doesn’t know where to go from here or is simply stunned by the suggestion in her words. She’s saying she isn’t leaving. Saying that she could. She doesn’t like hearing it either, hated it even as she spoke it. She didn’t mean to imply something like that.

She leans forward on her chair, until her hand can rest lightly over Niko’s, hoping her face shows the contrition she feels.

“Niko, I’m trying to do a good thing here. I’m stepping out of my comfort zone and helping someone who’s feeling lost. Can you step out of yours and just… try to support me? Just for a while longer.”

Niko nods without meeting her eye, then gets up, her hand slipping out of his without resistance.

“I think I’m going to bed. Try not to make too much noise on your way up.”

“Yeah, I’ll be quiet. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She sits for a while longer with Amanda’s essay on her lap, utterly forgotten. Her mind follows Niko’s heavy footsteps up the stairs, then the water running as he brushes his teeth, the quiet rustling and the groan of the mattress as he gets under the sheets.

She walks to the windows and swings them open, lets the cold night air hit her face until it’s numb.

Even the walls of the living room feel too small now, too tight around her.

(...)

It’s a quiet afternoon in the office. Oksana is on her best behaviour, scribbling notes on the sides of her copy of _East of Eden_ even though they’ve already moved past it in class, and Eve takes advantage of the peace to slowly make her way through a paper that Bill has asked her to review. It focuses on poetry, which is his area of expertise, but the section on Sylvia Plath can benefit from her mastery of the great Americans.

The pile of heavily annotated pages on her desk grows – as long as she’s got her hands on the thing, she might as well add in her comments on form and structure for the full piece –, but she slows down to look over the brief Plath biography with special care.

She hears a thump as Oksana drops her book, finally bored, then a shuffling of her chair’s wheels as she paddles herself over to Eve’s side. An arm brushes past hers and Oksana is holding the page she’s just finished reviewing. This should be good; Oksana is even less of a fan of poetry than she is of prose.

Eve lets her pencil rest on the page, unmoving, and watches as Oksana’s eyes scan over each line, first with indifference, then with an uptick of interest. She hums.

“ _I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again,_ ” she recites off the page.

“Mad Girl’s Love Song,” Eve identifies for her. “It’s a poem by Sylvia Plath.”

“It’s about love?” Oksana asks, her lip curling. She doesn’t look pleased at that.

“It’s also about madness.”

She seems to like that part a bit more. She looks back at the paper and continues to follow the lines, eyes skipping up and down like she’s just picking up words here and there.

“This woman had problems,” she finally comments with amusement. Her eyes scan a moment longer. “It says it’s a villanelle. Is that French?”

“Italian, actually.”

She shrugs a little at the information. She’d prefer French, Eve assumes.

“And what exactly is a villanelle?” Oksana turns to face her, full of an intense curiosity that scatters away the thoughts in Eve’s brain.

“Bill defines it somewhere in there.”

“He does?” Oksana asks carelessly. She doesn’t look down. “But I want _you_ to explain it.”

“Well, okay then, it’s…” She sets down her things and threads her fingers together, getting her thoughts in order. “It’s nineteen lines, four tercets and a quatrain. There’s only two rhymes, mostly alternating, and then you keep repeating the- I’m sure you can just Google this, you know?” she cuts herself off, strangely flustered at the full depth of attention Oksana has laid on her.

“I’d rather hear it from you. I like the way you explain things.”

“Even boring things?” Eve can’t help asking, her voice light to mask the scepticism.

“It’s not boring if it’s you explaining.”

“Oh.” The sensation those words give her is a bit like she’s travelling in an elevator so fast that her body begins to lose its pull to the ground, and it’s a bit like vertigo. They remind her of Niko’s eyes drifting back to the TV set, of his face as he gets up from the sofa, and then she doesn’t want to think about Niko.

Not for the same reasons as before. Not because she’s having so much fun and the thought of him brings her crashing down to Earth and to the confines of her real life.

Because she doesn’t want to think of him that way. As the negative side of the comparison. As the disappointment. It makes her feel like she actually might be doing something wrong. And she doesn’t want to feel that way.

She takes a deep breath, brushes all of that away, and carries on.

“There isn’t much more to it, actually. There’s two lines in the first tercet that you keep repeating for the rest of the poem, that’s the main ingredient to a villanelle. Sets up a pattern of repetition, which is good for things like circular or obsessive thoughts.”

“Definitely good for mad love, then.”

“Yeah, that one’s a pretty textbook example.”

“I like it,” Oksana comments simply. Likes what, exactly? The form? This villanelle in particular? “Villanelle. Obsession. I think it suits me.”

“What do you mean, suits you?” In response to Eve’s confusion, Oksana simply stretches out a hand then sweeps it along her side, pointing out all of herself. It barely clears up anything. “That doesn’t- a villanelle is a poem, it’s already a thing, it can’t just become something else. You can’t _be_ a villanelle, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does,” the girl replies patiently, confidently. “If you like something, then it doesn’t matter what it is. What it’s supposed to be. You can shape it, change it, make it suit you.”

Eve isn’t sure how to respond. Some rational part of herself must know that this is nonsense, that none of it is logical, but when Oksana leans back, smooth and silky and larger than life, and her brows quirk as if daring Eve to question it, and her lips are stretched in a grin that seems to devour Eve whole, then her words become all that exists. All that can be true.

“Doesn’t it suit me, Eve?” Oksana asks in dulcet tones.

It does.

“Villanelle?”

It does.

“Yes. Villanelle.”

Oh, it does.

(...)

Eve first realizes it when they go to see the stars. It must have been true for a very long time. She must have known it before now. But this is the moment when she acknowledges it, when it looms at the very front of her mind, ahead of all other thoughts, and demands recognition.

It’s a night like any other. They start out in Oksana’s flat, Eve sprawled out on the sofa and gazing blankly out the window, Oksana leaning against the backrest and doing her best to convince Eve to go out. But tonight, she doesn’t feel like getting drunk or braving crowds, so she keeps changing the topic and watching the glimpse of sky that peeks in between buildings.

She gets up, walks closer to the windows until she’s nearly touching them. She keeps that inch of distance, because it’s pretty rude to get people’s windows dirty, they’re a pain to clean. She tilts her neck to catch more sky.

“There are never any stars out here.”

They’ve already had a few gin and tonics, because these days Oksana keeps a stock of Eve’s preferred liquor. Eve feels that usual lightness of thought that signals the presence of alcohol. Still far from drunk, but happy.

“It’s London,” Oksana points out, the statement self-evident. Eve turns back to her to catch a smile. “Did you want to see the stars?”

She shrugs. “Don’t you? Sometimes?”

“Not all of us are romantics.”

“You are,” Eve states with more confidence than she thought she had on the topic. Has Oksana shown any sign of it? Eve isn’t sure, but it just feels right to say. Oksana’s answering chuckle tells her that the statement is unexpected for both of them.

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Let’s go see the stars.”

And then they’re off, just like that. No mention of previous plans, no questioning of the timing or the traffic or anything. They just go.

They ride for nearly an hour, the driver taking them farther and farther from Central London, past the bright and noisy inner city to the quieter, slower suburbs, through empty streets traversing residential blocks. They come to a halt at a lonely lane of fencing, stretching to either side of them. Oksana exchanges a quick word with the driver then walks off towards the fence, followed by Eve.

“What do we do now?”

“We sneak in,” Oksana says, like it’s more than evident. She gets a running start and leaps at the fence, swinging herself up like it’s the easiest job in the world. Swinging a leg across it, she sits straddling the top and offers a hand down to Eve, helping pull her up to join her.

It’s easier than Eve thought it would be and soon both women are dropping to the soft grass on the other side. A park. Just a park, on the outskirts of London.

“What happens if someone finds us?”

“I’ll pay them off.”

“Well, can’t you pay them off first? So we don’t get attacked by dogs or something?”

“Oh, where is the fun in that?”

“Oksana, dogs!” Eve calls out her still very present concern, trying not to raise her voice, but Oksana is already sprinting ahead of her and she has to hurry to catch up.

They stop at the top of a hill. All around them, there is nothing but trees and grass and little well-tended flowery plots.

“Eve, shut up and pay attention.”

“To what?”

A hand grabs her shoulder, pulls her down along with Oksana. She finds herself on her back, the dewy grass cold even through her clothes.

“To that.”

The sky above is a bright mass of stars against the utter darkness that surrounds them. It knocks every word out of Eve. All she can do is lie there and watch it, let it fill her with the sensation of infinite. She feels like she’s been transported to another world.

“Do you know the constellations?” Oksana asks after some time. Her voice is quiet, like she doesn’t want to disturb the moment.

“Not really.” Her honest answer amuses the girl. “You?”

“Hmm.” Oksana’s arm hovers in the air, then her finger points out a section of the sky decisively. “Orion’s belt.”

Eve snorts. “Okay, yeah, sure. Are you going to point out Ursa Major next?”

The finger draws steadying circles, reassessing its aim, then lands at another point. Eve doesn’t mention how her perspective makes her see a completely different place than Oksana at the end of her arm. Just a random mass of stars.

“There,” Oksana says happily.

Eve turns to the side. Oksana is still looking ahead, proudly studying her stellar discovery, and her profile is outlined in darkness. The gentle curve of her chin, leading to soft lips, to the elegant arch of her nose, the slope of her forehead all the way to the small hairs that peek free from her careful hairdo. They’re golden against the black night, almost transparent.

Eve realizes it then.

She tries to look back at the stars, to be transported back to infinity, but she’s firmly rooted to the spot now. Grounded.

It doesn’t feel scary. It should feel scary, or like a bridge that can’t be crossed. _This_ should be the moment of vertigo, but it’s just a quiet little discovery. Like Orion’s Belt, something that she’s always known was there, long before Oksana pointed it out.

Eve realizes that she wants to kiss Oksana.

(...)

Niko comes home smelling like someone else’s perfume.

He arrives, greets her at the little office with a hug and a quick peck, and as soon as her arms are around him, she can feel it. Underneath the cologne, just a hint of something else. She wonders if there’s a funny story there, a perfume bottle toppling over onto him or something.

She follows him into the kitchen, leans against the counter while he puts on his apron.

“You smell different today,” she says with a smirk. He pulls some carrots and onions out of the fridge and prepares to chop them.

“Do I? Did I get some lunch on me?”

“No, not like lunch.”

“Well?”

“You smell like a _lady_ ,” she elaborates, playfully accentuating the word.

“Is this a comment on my new cologne?”

Oh, is it new?

“No, you literally smell like a lady. Like perfume.”

He pauses his chopping and looks off into nowhere, brows furrowed. He seems confused by the situation. Maybe there isn’t a funny story then, just some accidental contact that he didn’t even notice at the time.

“Why would I smell like perfume?”

“I don’t know, maybe you brushed against an overly-perfumed woman on your way home.”

“I did get bumped a lot on the street. It was like pinball, getting here.” His finger zigzags in the air, imitating his rough trip homewards.

She snorts, steals a piece of carrot while his hands are busy, pretends to be chastised as he swats her away from the cooking area.

“Or maybe I’m having an affair,” Niko adds dramatically, the effect somewhat ruined by him also taking a piece of carrot and popping it in his mouth.

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure it’s that,” she replies dismissively. Niko, cheating. That one’s likely.

“You don’t think anyone would have me?”

“I think tons of people would have you,” she assures suggestively, although around a burst of laughter.

“People at school think I’m quite a catch.”

“I’m sure all the students have the hots for you.”

“And Gemma,” Niko points out.

“Oh, poor Gemma. She should just get another cat.”

“Maybe you should feel more threatened by Gemma,” Niko carries on, with a very cheeky smile that Eve is already returning before he delivers the punchline. “She’s got very nice tits.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So stop looking at Gemma’s tits.” Niko laughs as she swats him with the dishcloth, taking a couple of blows before pulling her in by it and trapping her in a kiss.

The amusement lives on inside her for a few moments longer, enough for her to make her way back to the office, where she left an e-mail half-written. Then she sits in her chair, swivels around in it a couple of times as a weird deflating sensation courses through her.

She never even considered cheating. Still doesn’t. Niko just wouldn’t, and she knows him well enough to know that he wouldn’t.

Because she knows him, every inch of him, every expression he makes and every thought he has and every step of every routine he follows. Niko is safe. Stable, reliable, utterly predictable. He’s more an algorithm than a person, sometimes. Whatever input she gets, she always knows which steps to follow to reach the conclusion.

Niko can talk about Gemma’s tits all he wants, but Eve has probably fantasized about them more than he has.

He’s boring.

He’s nice. He’s really nice. He’s the nicest guy. And for a very long time, for over a decade, that’s what Eve saw in him.

But right now, she sees boring.

(...)

She goes to Oksana’s flat unannounced. It’s never happened before; they always go together from the university, or one of them texts the other with the suggestion, but today Eve wants to be spontaneous. What happened with Niko has left her strangely worried. What if she is boring too? What if they have become two halves of the same whole, a couple like any other, boring and settled?

She wonders whether Oksana will mind the intrusion. Now that Eve thinks about it, her time with Oksana has been completely insulated. It’s always just the two of them, at the flat or out on the town. If Oksana has other friends, which Eve assumes she must, she has never brought them in contact with her. Not even Konstantin, the only name Eve has ever gotten from the girl.

Will any of them be here tonight? Will they be spending their time the same way that Eve usually does with Oksana, or doing something else? Will they be upstairs?

And will Oksana be angry that Eve has come?

She’s never been angry with Eve, always either bent to Eve’s will placidly, like an adult appeasing a child, or stubbornly kept her ground, herself playing the child, and used the most immature tactics to leave absolutely no room for argument. But there’s always been an air of authority to her, something about her eyes and posture that encourages those around her to behave, obey. To not act out. Is Eve acting out right now?

The lock downstairs has a code that Eve knows by heart, so she makes her presence known with the upstairs doorbell, right outside Oksana’s flat. She hears a mechanical sound slowly wind down, then footsteps.

Oksana opens the door in a sports bra and form-fitting shorts. The short hairs at her temple stick to her face with sweat that travels down to gather at the hollow of her neck, to stream down her toned stomach, to lend her arms an uneven sheen. Her breath is uneven too, making her chest rise with each deep intake.

“Eve,” she says neutrally. Nothing more.

Eve recalls the treadmill that has always sat in a corner of a living room, usually covered with so many layers of clothes and junk that she didn’t expect it to actually be in use. Then again, Oksana does have a habit of just shoving everything to the ground whenever she wants to use an occupied surface.

“Am I interrupting?”

“I did say I work out,” Oksana gives in lieu of an answer, seeming to catch the wandering of Eve’s eyes across her body. She smirks, a tilted little thing, then steps back and heads to the bundle of fabric slung over the bottom of the stairs, that Eve identifies as a robe once she slips it on.

She remembers to step inside once Oksana is halfway across the room to the kitchen. When Eve catches up with her, she’s reaching inside the fridge for one of the many bottles of water she keeps inside, then gulping it down greedily. With her head tilted back, her glistening neck stands in full view, throat bobbing as she swallows.

“Would you like a drink?” Oksana offers, filling the silence. Eve realizes she hasn’t said anything in a while. She shakes her head quietly. Even without speaking, she can sense that her vocal cords are in a strange tension, liable to act out, and she doesn’t want to test the prediction. “Well, to what do I owe the unexpected pleasure?”

“No particular reason.” Eve’s heart races with the effort to keep her voice steady. She feels entirely unlike herself. Or maybe more like herself than ever before. “Just wanted to drop by.”

Oksana’s sweat is still coursing down her neck, staining the collar of the robe. What a way to treat such sensitive material.

“I will take a shower, then.” The look on Oksana’s face is something new. Eve isn’t sure what it means and, as always, the thought sends a thrill down her spine. “Wait for me upstairs?”

The shower takes ages. Eve can hear the water running from her place in Oksana’s bedroom, stiffly sitting on the bed. Her senses are so attuned to every sound coming from the bathroom that she barely spares a glance to the space she has never been in before.

There’s the bed, as comfortable as it looked. The carpet, as thick as she expected. An antique dressing table, fitted with a modern mirror – no staining or distorting of the image – and stacked with beauty products and lotions. A closet that must contain the linen, because Eve hasn’t seen room for it anywhere else.

Oksana returns, in a different robe. This one’s shorter, cut off just above the knee. It’s tied very loosely, drawing a wide V across her chest that affords a full view of the lacy bra she’s wearing underneath. No fabric peeks out from below the robe, hinting that Oksana really is in nothing but lingerie.

She brushes by Eve on her way to the dressing table and every inch of her seems impossibly hot. Blazing against Eve’s skin. She already smells of a million different perfumes, but once she sits down, she begins to go through the flasks on the table and applying one after the other. Lotion for her hands, for her face, for the skin around her eyes, for her neck, for her legs. Her hands reach down to her ankles, then up past the knee, along the thigh, parting the edges of the robe – she’s definitely in just lingerie, and it seems to be a matching pair.

After all this is done, she pats down her still-wet hair, squeezes another product into her hands and begins running them lazily down the tresses. The whole room seems to be filled by her scent now, the familiar scent of Oksana that Eve now realizes is an irreproducible mixture of dozens of elements. Without pausing in her motions, she catches Eve’s eye in the mirror and holds her gaze, not breaking contact until she’s done with her hair. Her hands slowly lower to her waist and her eyes now study herself, a smile of appreciation following the line of her own cleavage.

The scents that fill the room seem to push everything inside Eve out of place, to pull free things that shouldn’t be pulled free. She watches, but she isn’t sure what she’s seeing, and with every breath the essence of Oksana fills her lungs and makes her head grow lighter.

Oksana reaches for the belt of her robe and Eve knows why she came here now and it slips open, the fabric parting to reveal the skin and black lace underneath, and she didn’t come to be spontaneous, she already knows she is, and Oksana is on her feet, walking the few steps to the bed, and it’s unsettling. That she knew before Eve did.

She sits next to Eve on the bed. The robe has slipped off her shoulder and the sleeve pools down around her wrist.

“I’ve been thinking about it. Villanelle.”

Eve can count Oksana’s eyelashes, can see her tongue brush against the back of her teeth as she whispers the words. Her lips remain parted for one, two breaths. Eve struggles to keep her own breathing steady.

“I want you to call me Villanelle. Would you do that, Eve?”

Oksana’s hand comes up to the shoulder still covered by her robe. Her fingers curl around the fabric and brush it away, until it tips around the curve and falls to restore symmetry. Her body is bare, chest rising and falling steadily, legs long and flawless, and nothing but black lacy fabric covering any part of her.

“Villanelle,” Eve breathes out. The word feels powerful, licks a tongue of fire down her lungs as she speaks it. Oksana smiles with pleasure, her eyes growing darker. She nods a little, encouragingly.

“Villanelle,” Eve repeats a little louder. She feels the word leave her but can barely hear it over the pounding of her heart. Oksana’s lips are so close, and they are parted once more, and her breath is warm against Eve’s skin, and her hand has snaked around her neck, fingers lying there with the lightest of touches.

“Villanelle.”

She closes her eyes. In the darkness, she feels skin, warm and soft all around her. Hands reaching under layers of fabric until they are pressed against Eve, legs reaching to straddle her waist, lips brushing against hers.

She feels it all and doesn’t resist. Her senses are full to the brim with one thing only and it’s _her_. Her scent, her heat, her touch, her panting breaths.

She is full to the brim with Villanelle. She surrenders with a sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of the literature bits don't make sense, please forgive me, but I'm more of a science gal. But also, hopefully the literature bits aren't what was left on your mind with this chapter.
> 
> Come check me out on twitter @evesaxe ^^


	7. The regretting is taught

Villanelle has been waiting for this. Not in the strictest sense; she certainly hasn't been “saving herself”, although it’s been hard to find the time for her typical amusements when Eve is always around, imposing on her time. Still, when you have a particular craving, no amount of feasting can ever fully get rid of it, until you finally indulge.

And now, she gets to indulge. How unfortunate that after all the pretty outfits she’s bought her and all the fashion shows they’ve put on at the apartment, at the moment of victory Eve is once more in a boring, earth-tone, slacks and turtleneck combo.

Her hands pull ferociously at hems and zippers, not quite coordinated as she single-mindedly rids Eve of every offending piece of fabric. Underneath is a much better sight, and she sits back to take in the long stretches of exposed skin, Eve’s naked muscles taut with tension and shivering with anticipation. She runs her hands down Eve’s stomach, watches the trails of goosebumps that erupt in their wake.

Eve is silent, as if trying to hold her breath. Like a caged beast? Or... like one that finds itself unexpectedly free. Afraid of pouncing just yet, of baring its teeth. Still learning what it means to be on the other side of the cage, to be powerful.

Villanelle likes Eve. She’s the most fun she’s had in a while.

Usually when you push people they push back, and then begins the tedious process of finding the limit, the balance of how much you can take and keep them on your side. But with Eve, Villanelle pushes and pushes and pushes and she just follows along, happily. Like she’s glad someone has finally given her the excuse to slide out of her boring life and into a more exciting one.

As Villanelle watches, Eve slowly begins to move, as if instantly understanding the exchange. It’s her turn to take charge and she does so hesitantly at first, and then eagerly. For the first time, she reaches out and touches Villanelle, everywhere, actions almost feverish. More than her touch, it’s her desire that reverberates inside Villanelle’s chest.

She’s always enjoyed being wanted.

This is her reward, for all her careful and patient planning, for all the times she swallowed down her pride and gave in to Eve’s wishes, for all the ridiculous stargazing and whispering and emotional confessions. She’s given more than she planned, but she’s also gotten much more. She has a lot in store for Eve.

Her bra has been unclasped and hangs precariously to her shoulders. She shrugs it off then slaps Eve’s hands away. It’s her turn now.

Eve’s skin is warm to the touch, grows white then red as Villanelle’s nails run down it, drawing little paths that bring forth gasps. After each one, she leans down to soothe the skin with her tongue in a series of open-mouthed kisses. Eve paws at her hair, trying to get purchase so she can pull her up, to her own lips. Villanelle allows the misbehaviour, this time. Let her think she’s in control.

It was that easy, of course. Back off and let Eve come to her, act like she’s been bested. It’s always that easy with the self-important. Oksana the predator is an easy target, but Oksana the wounded, the fragile, the orphan, can slip past anyone's defences. All she had to do was show up wherever Eve happened to be, make sad googly eyes. _How awful of you, Eve, to gloat over such a helpless little girl_.

She massages Eve’s breasts over her bra, feels her kisses turn to gasps as their lips still brush together. With skilful fingers, she seeks out her nipples and tweaks them through the fabric, rewarded with the whimper that escapes Eve’s throat unwittingly. She slides her hand under the cup and meets flesh directly, making the whimpers grow louder and more keen.

She’d never allow for such treatment of her own bra, it stretches the fabric abominably, but Eve’s looks like it was bought from a clearance rack at the local supermarket so she doubts it will be much of a loss.

Everything went so well. Eve was the perfect plaything, pushing and pulling just in time to Villanelle’s wishes. She even invited her into her home, no prodding needed. She must have _really_ regretted not sleeping with her when she got the chance. With such a fudge-block of a husband, Villanelle can understand the sentiment.

It all changed with their weekend in Marseilles. The plan for those two days was simple enough: to dazzle Eve with riches and power, then finally get her into bed. She’d have a lovely memory to cling to when they returned to London and the affair ruined her life, with a little push from Villanelle.

Eve’s whimpers have deepened to moans, her hands have settled on Villanelle’s shoulders like claws. The pain doesn’t bother her, she’s always had a high threshold for it anyway. She focuses on removing Eve’s bra entirely, on letting her lips latch onto a nipple, alternating sucking and biting. Her left hand is buried deep in Eve’s hair, clinging tightly to the endless curls, and the right goes lower, dips to draw patterns against the bottom of Eve’s stomach.

Eve’s hips strain, arch against her touch, but she doesn’t push Villanelle’s hands anywhere, seems resigned to let her take the lead now.

Instead of sex, Villanelle got something much more interesting: a glimpse of what Eve could be. Under all the boring was the desire to escape it, of course, every boring person has that, however deep it may be hidden. But with Eve it wasn’t just the abstract wish to not fade into the background of existence. Eve wanted to misbehave. To really misbehave.

Eve wants an excuse. For everything she does, everyone she harms, every wrongdoing, she just wants an excuse. A single voice going against all the teachings of society. Because deep down, she knows the rules are wrong, but after so many years of playing along, she’s grown too shy to openly disobey. Villanelle can change that.

Slipping under Eve’s underwear, Villanelle feels the slick warmth that has already gathered there. She runs her fingers slowly along its length, biting back a smile as Eve’s breath grows increasingly erratic, speeding up and squeezing to a gasp as her fingers brush up and down.

She settles up, index finger on her clit, and spins it in a lazy circle. The claws on her shoulders dig tighter. She repeats the motion, again and again, sucks harder at Eve’s nipple, digs the nails of her left hand into Eve’s scalp.

Everything after that weekend was a fun game of helping Eve along the path that has been waiting for her all her life. She could be more, so much more, she just lacked the right kind of education in her formative years. Probably had boring parents, intent on raising a boring daughter. Like the crushing majority of humanity.

They’re almost there. Now that Eve lies naked and sprawling under her, not a word of “we shouldn’t” escaping her lips, only pleasure forcing her eyes tightly shut, Villanelle knows they’re so close. Just a little more work. A few more overt lessons.

Eve has surrendered. Villanelle would be a poor teacher if she didn’t understand what that means, didn’t skip her ahead a few grades. And then, when she’s really made her into her masterpiece, it will be so much more satisfying to cut her loose and leave her to her darkness.

Her thumb replaces her index finger. She angles her hand, then slides one finger inside Eve, then another. She can feel warm walls cling to her, pull her in, squeeze thoughtlessly. She picks up the pace, which Eve matches, clinging closer, her whole body moving along as a natural extension of Villanelle’s arm.

Her mouth leaves Eve’s nipple to settle by her ear. She bites the sensitive ear, then whispers, “What is my name, Eve?”

Eve comes halfway through a clipped “Villanelle.”

This is going to be fun.

(...)

Eve is special, because she has the potential to be more than the things that chain her down, but she is also very ordinary, because these chains are, in essence, the same as everyone else’s. They are the little white lies that all children are told, until they grow into adults who really should know better than to believe them, and they are the new lies they make up, to ensconce themselves more deeply in their lives, until there is no escape.

Now, Villanelle gets to reach out to each of these chains, which are really no stronger than twine, than lace, and gently pluck them away.

It’s late at night. They lie tangled in sheets. It’s been weeks since that first time, when Eve fell into a spent sleep and woke up hours later with a peaceful smile. She looked at her phone, at the messages that Niko had left – Villanelle had a look while she slept – and sent off a quick thoughtless reply, an excuse, before succumbing to the kisses that Villanelle had been dropping on her shoulder since she first stirred.

It’s late at night. They’re still catching their breaths. For someone who hasn’t slept with anyone but her husband for who knows how long, Eve is a quick learner.

“Tell me something,” Eve says in a low voice. All the oxytocin is probably making her sentimental. She does seem to believe they’re a pair of romantics. The notion makes Villanelle want to laugh. “About yourself.”

“I am Russian.”

“Something I don’t know.”

“I find you very demanding.”

“Is that the something or are you just commenting?”

Villanelle gives in with a chuckle. She turns to face the ceiling, already drawing out the story in her mind. It’s going to take another piece of herself she usually doesn’t give away, but it’ll be worth it. Eve liked her family history, fell for it like Villanelle was sharing a fairytale. She’ll like this one too.

“Fine. I will tell you about my first.”

“Your first?”

“Yes, Eve, my _first_.” Her hand stretches out to land fingers on Eve’s thigh, up to nearly her waist. _That_ kind of first. “Her name was Anna.”

“How did you two meet?”

“She worked at the house. Not a maid or a kitchen worker, no, she wanted more than that. She ran the place, kept track of all the employees and the supplies, approved the menus and the guest lists, oversaw the finances. And that wasn’t enough for her either. She was studying. Saving up to start her own school.”

Anna was ambitious. Hard-working. Young Oksana hadn’t understood how someone could put so much effort into anything, when they could just relax into their life and let it take them. Why struggle against the current for years and years, wearing yourself out before your time, missing all the fun?

“She was 24. Beautiful. Amazing bushy hair.” Eve breathes out a little laugh at that. “I have a type.”

“Clearly,” Eve replies with a lazy smile, then turns to face her. “How old were you?”

“Sixteen.”

“That’s young.”

“Astankovs grow up quickly.” Eve offers no more comment. “I would follow her around the house, asking questions about her work. Once she’d told me about her plans for the future, we would talk about that. She wanted to be in charge of languages at her school, and she spoke quite a few, so we would sit and speak in French and German and English for hours.”

“She was soft. Gentle, like a flower. She was the kind of person who likes poetry and music and a soft touch. Her husband was not. He was a big brute. I don’t think he could even read. Sometimes she would stay at the house after work, late into the night, just to avoid going home.”

“She was married?”

Villanelle turns to Eve, just for a second. Just to say what remains unspoken. _You’re married_ , her eyes communicate. _Married means nothing_.

“I got her the things she wanted. A whole library of books, bouquets of flowers. We would waltz around the large empty rooms that the family never used.”

“Did you seduce her?”

“I was sixteen,” Villanelle counters with a display of indignation that seems to amuse Eve. She gives up on the act and smiles along. “If you saw her, you wouldn’t blame me. And she took to the seducing _very_ easily.”

“How did it go wrong?” Eve asks. Villanelle raises an eyebrow at that. “You were sixteen and she was a married woman working for your family. It went wrong.”

“It did.”

“Her husband?”

“My father,” Villanelle clarifies with a vacant smile. Of course it was Father. It was always Father, catching her in her lies, ruining her fun, punishing her. Father knew everything, had eyes everywhere. It was the only way to maintain control. Not that it did him much good in the end.

Eve sucks in a breath, holds it with sudden apprehension. Villanelle has an idea of what she must think of Father. Big, scary man. Disciplinary. Well, she’s right. But she doesn’t understand.

“He caught us one day. Walked in on the full inappropriate display. Anna was sent away. So much for all her dreams of a little school, of teaching English to the children.”

“And you?”

“Me? Oh, I was upset for some time. But he told me something important on that day. He grabbed me by the arm, right under the shoulder, an iron grip. He told me that rules were not to be ignored.” She turns her body to Eve, who seems to start as she receives Villanelle’s full attention. “If you are going to break them, make sure nobody finds out. And if somebody finds out, make sure they don’t catch you.”

She chuckles, the sound like a bullet in the silence.

“His fingers squeezed, dug into my arm. He never struck me in the face, but he’d leave the mark of those fingers on my arm. Four long bruises, like the stripes on a tiger.” She shrugs, amusement striking her as she follows Eve’s line of sight to her shoulder. “The bruises faded. They always did. But his advice will guide me forever.”

“Make sure you don’t get caught?”

“That was my mistake, you see? He didn’t mind what I did. But if someone knew, if someone informed him, then my actions reflected on all of us. Then it became his problem, and he was forced to act. He wanted me to be better.”

“He wanted you to get away with it.”

She nods. Eve just looks at her, for a long time. The wheels are turning in her mind.

It takes time, but she understands. She asks questions, later, in Madrid. Their second weekend trip. Villanelle is there for some business, painfully wrangled from the grip of Konstantin, but it will only be a couple of hours in a conference room, so she brings her plaything along, furthers her education.

Eve is a quick learner in many ways. This time, Villanelle directs and she does. She’s learned how to divert attention, how to pick locks, how to get designer clothes past a boutique’s security system. It isn’t that hard, as long as you are confident. Why would someone steal something they could buy and sell a hundred times over?

“Why do you do it?”

Eve has never asked before, just complied, revelled in the danger. A lesser person might fear that a question is the beginning of the crisis of conscience. Villanelle knows better.

A question is curiosity. Curiosity is interest and interest is the first step to surrender. Eve wants to do the things, so she doesn’t think about them, because thinking about them would bring up a dozen issues of morality. If Eve is thinking about it now, it’s because something has changed for the better.

Villanelle wonders how the rest of humanity lives. The ones who can’t read a person at a glance, who have to keep trying and blundering along. It must drive one mad.

“Why? Why not?”

“Because it’s illegal, and you can afford to just buy it?”

“Because buying would be safer?”

“Not safer, it… It’s legal. It’s… right.”

“Define ‘right’,” Villanelle points out dismissively. In the silence of Eve’s hesitation, she carries on, “Legal is more objective, but it’s also more questionable, isn’t it? Some laws are _wrong_ ,” she says a little sarcastically, picking up on the very wording she criticized. “Laws change in time. Things that were allowed become forbidden, things that were illegal become permitted. Did morality change? Did humanity change? Or is it all arbitrary?”

“Laws are arbitrary?”

Villanelle quirks a brow, tilts her head provocatively. “Morality is arbitrary.”

“Okay, well, that’s definitely an inflammatory opinion.”

“Does it surprise you?”

“I just- There’s a difference between doing things that are wrong because you want to do them, and saying that nothing is wrong.”

“I do what I can, _because_ I can. Right and wrong doesn’t come into play.”

“That doesn’t mean the concepts don’t exist.”

“Sure. Lots of pointless things exist because we decided that they should. Like three quarter pants. But we aren’t born with any innate sense of them, we’re just taught how they work. Fairness is whatever we’re told it is when we’re young enough not to question it.”

She can’t stand these empty philosophical debates. Words are just words and they mean nothing. It’s just intellectual trickery, verbal misdirection.

But it works. It works wonderfully. Talk at someone enough, make them dizzy enough, and everything begins to feel subjective. And if your audience already feels inclined to believe your thesis, then all they need is the slight encouragement of good form and a bit of confidence to push them the rest of the way. People love empty words. They’re simple like that.

“When you stuffed that jacket in your bag and slipped out of the store with it, didn’t it feel good?” Eve nods. She really doesn’t care what Villanelle says, does she? She’s already happy to be convinced. “And now you’re asking me why I do it, saying it’s illegal, it’s wrong. Because you feel guilty.” She leans closer, smirks victoriously. “The stealing is instinct, the regretting is taught.”

“So what’s real?”

“None of it. It’s all relative. Something is good if it isn’t bad, and it’s bad if it isn’t good. No absolutes. You can’t make a list of everything there is, and stamp it all as good or bad. There is no good and bad.”

“It’s all relative.” Villanelle nods. “Just don’t get caught.” She nods again, smiles.

There’s the first chain broken. And it’s only going to get easier.

(...)

“Well, this is awkward,” Villanelle remarks happily around a bite of her bucatini. “It is so quiet, I can hear you chewing. It’s a little gross.”

Konstantin grunts, his mouth full. Villanelle twiddles her thumbs.

“I tried to make small talk, like a nice guest, but you are a terrible conversationalist. If you only invited me to watch you eat, then we will have to have a word about inappropriate business relationships.”

Konstantin swallows, grimaces a little at her comment. “I did invite your for a reason.” She leans back in her chair, waves him along. He seems shy. “You are on your last year of schooling. Have you thought about what you will do after?”

“How nice of you to ask! I thought I’d pursue a Master’s in Education.” She pauses, watches his puzzled face, then bursts into laughter. “What do you mean? I am going to run the family business, obviously. _My_ business.”

Konstantin takes a sip of his wine, weighing his words. “By yourself? It is difficult, and demanding. The job requires patience and responsibility.”

“I have both!”

He sends her a dubious look. Old Konstantin has never had any faith in her, ever since she was a little girl.

“I can help you find the right people to hire, people who will manage-”

“ _I_ will manage it. It’s mine.” She loosens her grip on her fork before it bends under her fingers. Konstantin studies the action, a frown forming on his bear-ish face.

“Oksana. You will get bored. You know you will.”

“So?”

“You know what happens when you get bored.”

“Father wanted me to go to University so I’d be prepared to run things,” she points out sulkily. Konstantin is being difficult for no reason. He is such a grump.

“He wanted you to have more time. To grow, mature. Settle down.”

“I have.”

“You haven’t.” Oh, his patience is wearing thin. She wonders if Konstantin has children of his own. With a temper like that, he must be a very poor educator. “You don’t take things seriously. You still act out like a child. I understand this gets you what you want, but it won’t work forever.”

She narrows her eyes in the direction of his beard. Konstantin pauses, a flash of worry passes through his eyes. She leans forward. “You have a bit of sauce on your…” She waves her hand to the side of her lips. “Right here.”

Konstantin sighs. But he also runs his napkin all around his bushy beard, so who is the real winner of this interaction?

“You are special, Oksana.” Obviously. “You have something inside you that nobody else has. Something extraordinary. But you have to make sure you are in control of it, not the other way around.”

She hums. Very serious, very thoughtful.

“Where is the next meeting of the board?” She is met with sulky silence. “Konstantin, please remember that you are a glorified administrator. I am your boss. I always will be. Where is it?”

“Madrid.”

“That will be lovely this time of the year.”

“No, it won’t. It will be hot and stuffy.”

“Then you will be so thankful that I am willing to go in your place. In two weeks, is it?” Konstantin shakes his head, a dark look in his eyes. Villanelle laughs playfully. “Lovely. Thank you for lunch.”

(...)

“What happened to Anna?”

It’s a few days after Villanelle shared the story. Eve didn’t ask anything else at the time, but it seems that some questions were left brewing inside her.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you told me your father… taught you a lesson,” she concludes ambiguously. Still struggling, but getting there. “But you only said he sent Anna away.”

Villanelle shrugs. “That’s what he did.”

“That’s it? Nothing more, I don’t know, personal? For the woman who slept with his underage daughter and heir?”

“He cared about me, not her.”

“But- if you two got caught, it was as much her fault as yours.”

“Sure. But she didn’t matter. She could have been caught pole dancing naked on the roof for all he cared. She was nobody. Some faceless servant.”

“What about discipline?”

“You discipline the ones that stay,” Villanelle says self-evidently.

“How is that fair?”

She laughs. She can’t help it. Eve just really doesn’t get it.

“There are two types of people in this world, Eve. The ones who matter, and the ones who are background. You don’t waste your time with the background. Father taught _me_ a lesson because I was the one that mattered. The one that deserved to learn it. Anna was background to him and that is what she became to me. So she left.”

“Background.”

“Most people are. You should save your energy for the rest.”

This one should be easy. Eve already believes in it, even if she might not be ready to admit it. That’s always the way with Eve, poor little indecisive thing. Wants to cling to her old boring life, because outside of it there is nothing showing her the way. She needs to realize that that’s half the fun. No instructions means no rules. Freedom.

Madrid. After dinner. This time, they only got one hotel room. No point in keeping up the charade, and it isn’t like Niko will ever know. Villanelle doubts Eve will share anything about this trip other than the fact that it happened. Or maybe the usual platitudes. The city is so nice, the food was great, the language is beautiful.

She’s ordered a bottle of red wine from room service, a particularly expensive vintage, of course. Eve sits on the bed, zapping through channels with the sound off, trying to catch something that isn’t in Spanish and not having much luck.

She has a little fun planned.

The man who comes to deliver the drink is young, tanned, relatively handsome. He wears the usual smarmy smile of all 5-star hotel staff, sure of his lowly position but also elevated by the environment he occupies, even if right at the bottom of it.

Villanelle lets her eyebrows knit together as she inspects the bottle.

“This is what you send me?”

“It is what madam requested,” he replies with a hint of hesitation.

“Is it?” She holds up the bottle to his scrutiny, but he can’t seem to find anything wrong, so she snatches it back. “It is a ‘78 vintage. I ordered a ‘75.”

“A thousand pardons, madam, but you-”

She cuts him off with a righteous gaze that seems to melt him to the floor. “I ordered a ‘75.” She repeats imperiously. “Take this, and return with your superior.”

“I am terribly sorry, truly, madam, I will bring you the ‘75-”

“Your superior. That is what you will bring.”

He shuffles backwards, misery clear on his face, and disappears from view.

“Oksana? What happened with the wine?”

“Villanelle,” she reprimands. Eve is still troublesome with the name. In the throes of passion, she never forgets, but everywhere else it seems to slip her mind. “They brought a ‘78, I’m going to speak to management.”

“That’s because you ordered a ‘78.”

“Did I?” Villanelle taps her chin as if deep in thought, like she isn’t perfectly aware that the man brought the right order. “Oh well, now the manager will come and give us the wine for free. A win for everyone.”

“What about the guy who brought you the wrong wine?” Villanelle shrugs. “Oks- Villanelle, he could get fired for this.” Villanelle shrugs again.

Another knock on the door.

“Are you going to rat me out, Eve?” She stares down the woman until she shakes her head with a sigh and returns to her TV. Villanelle opens the door.

“Madam, I have heard everything. Hotel management assures you that we are infinitely sorry for the occurrence.”

“And for the insolence of this man?” The man, still holding the bottle of wine, goes a greenish pale. “Who insisted that I had made the wrong order so I would take the wine?”

“M-madam, I meant no disrespect, I was only confused. I apologize deeply for the offence.”

Her gaze travels from the lowly waiter with the wine to the manager in a suit with an anxious smile. “And what do you plan to do about this?”

“I will have someone bring the correct wine at once, free of charge,” the manager assures. “And we will provide complimentary breakfast to your room tomorrow morning, if this would please you.”

“I suppose it will do,” she drawls out, unimpressed. “And this bottle?”

“We will return it at once.” The manager pauses, seems to realize his mistake. “That is, unless madam would like it? As a token of apology?”

“Well, it is not what I hoped to receive. But it will do for now, while I wait for what I _actually_ ordered.”

She snatches the bottle out of the waiter’s hands, watches both men slowly slip away amid endless flurries of apologies, then shuts the door and reaches for the corkscrew.

“Did you hear that, Eve? Two bottles of wine and breakfast tomorrow. If I knew acting paid this well, I would have studied that instead.”

“It only pays that well when you have money,” Eve points out.

“Good thing I have money, then.”

Eve accepts the full glass she is offered, takes a slow drink that seems to please her, then sets it down on the bedside table.

“Do you think he’ll get fired?” she asks with a hint of concern.

“Maybe.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Background, Eve.”

“The thing is, he wasn’t background. You made him _not_ background. You singled him out and possibly ruined his life to make yours the tiniest bit better.”

“Exactly. Background.” She sits down by Eve’s side and takes a deep breath. “Eve, background does not mean that you ignore people. It means that they don’t matter.”

“Oh, well, when you put it that way…”

“Go on, then. What is your problem with what I did?” She can’t help a little cheeky smile. Eve is so impulsive, begins these arguments of absolutes before she even knows why she’s invested.

“He didn’t deserve it. You could have gotten what you wanted without making his life worse in the process.”

“Those are two different statements. And we’ve already talked about the second one.”

Eve sighs. “You do because you can.” Villanelle nods approvingly. “Okay, well, other people are still people. If you treat them like garbage, what keeps others from doing the same to you?”

“Excellent question. The first reason is that I am better than them and I know how to get away with it. The second reason is that I am better than them and I understand that if I treat people badly, the collective momentum of all society will keep people from doing the same to me.”

“But did he deserve it? I mean, he could lose everything.”

“If he were a murderer, would it be justified to ruin his life?”

“What? I don’t know. I guess?”

“How do you know he isn’t a murderer?”

“He’s the guy that delivers wine to rich hotel guests, he’s not a murderer!”

“A rapist then. A paedophile. Maybe he beats his family or stalks young women or touches people up in the subway. Then would it be okay to pretend he brought me the wrong wine?”

“But you don’t know any of that.”

“But!” She raises a finger triumphantly, wags it around in the air. “You admit that there is a limit of ‘badness’, and after this limit is passed you can be bad to someone.”

“Maybe? I-”

“And so the only way to tell whether you can lie or cheat or steal is to know every detail of your victim’s life.”

“That doesn’t-”

“So the limit is as arbitrary as your knowledge of anyone around you.”

“You’re being confusing on purpose.”

“You are the one who does not know what she is arguing.”

“Fine, what are _you_ arguing?”

A knock on the door. She grabs the right bottle of wine, which is actually the wrong bottle of wine, but that doesn’t matter anyway.

“Don’t bother with arbitrary. Pick the people who matter, the ones that you care about, and treat those however you think is _fair_. Whatever that means. Everybody else is background, and their lives are background, and your effect on them is background.”

“And what gives you the right to make that choice?”

“I already answered that question too,” Villanelle points out with boredom. Eve just sits there and waits for a repeat. “Because I am better than them. You understand that, don’t you? We’re just better than them. Once you accept it, everything else comes very easily.”

“We’re better than them,” Eve repeats hesitantly. Villanelle sees the eagerness in her eyes. She wants to believe it, very much so. And so she will.

She shrugs, sips at her wine. “We just are.”

The second chain snaps.

Later, in Rome, she touches Eve right there in the bridge of their yacht, with the pilot tightly gripping the wheel of the yacht, looking dead ahead with horror. He can look away, but he can’t avoid hearing Villanelle’s whispers and Eve’s gasps.

She follows Eve’s eye, the glimpse of embarrassment that they should be long past at this point. She leans into her to whisper in her ear, “Background.”

Eve nods, her arms cling tighter around Villanelle’s shoulders. With the next swipe of her fingers, Eve is louder, her moans lingering in the small room. She smiles. That’s better.

(...)

Villanelle does not understand meeting for breakfast. Why would you travel places hungry? She looks at the menu in front of her and eeny-meeny-miny-moes her way through the different options.

“This Polastri woman,” Konstantin begins, waving over a waitress. They are sitting outside, but at least it isn’t windy. “You are having an affair with her.”

“Maybe.”

“Do you love her?”

She scoffs, loudly and openly. “No.”

They pause the interrogation to give their order, and she watches the elegant young woman walk back inside.

“Are you sure?” How annoying.

“I am sure.”

“Good, then. You remember what happened with Anna.”

She has to roll her eyes at that one. Anna, really? Her childhood affair? Like things could ever go that way again.

“Father isn’t here now.”

Konstantin pauses to study her. His fixed gaze makes something inside her itch, makes the corners of her lips pull downwards of their own accord. He is a tiny man who knows too much, always has, and he shows it off shamelessly.

“Dmitry wasn’t the problem.”

“She wanted _me_!” she roars across the table before she can stop herself. She clenches her jaw tightly to keep any more words from escaping her before she is ready. “I was… young. Naive. This is nothing like that.”

Konstantin looks like he wants to laugh at that, but has decided against it given the tense mood. Villanelle should make things tense more often.

“Everybody will disappoint you eventually. Especially the married ones.”

 _She wanted me_ , the words repeat inside her head, but she doesn’t let them leave her in a scream again. Konstantin knows. He knows. He’s just pushing her. She lets out a laugh instead and relaxes back against her chair.

“You are too uptight, Konstantin. The secret service work is taking its tool, huh? Or is it problems at home?” She raises a knowing brow, a gesture of familiarity, but as usual, he doesn’t open up. All work and no play, this Konstantin.

“You know I care about you. It is the only reason I say things that upset you, despite knowing…” He pauses, and the pause goes on and on, and he looks down at his plate. He isn’t going to finish the thought. _What do you know, Konstantin?_

“Of course, Konstantin. And I care you about,” she replies sweetly. He scoffs. “I do.”

Their food arrives, boring old toast for him and a stack of Nutella pancakes for her. She digs into the pile with excitement.

“You cared about Anna as well,” Konstantin remarks after a moment of silent eating.

“I was good to her.”

“Yes, she was your good little pet.” His tone is sarcastic.

“She didn’t complain of the gifts. The clothes and the perfume and the rare books and records.” Villanelle smiles at the memory. Yes, little Anna was always happy to receive the kinds of things she would never have been able to afford. A nice perk of dating the boss’s daughter.

“She didn’t. Until she did.”

Another stab of anger makes her want to cry out. She clenches her knife and slices right through the pancakes. “Father found us,” she says simply. She fills her fork and takes a large bite.

Konstantin watches her. His toast is still half-eaten and it’s going to go cold but he is more concerned with making stupid comments.

“You know what happened to her, don’t you?”

She shrugs. “Her husband was always a brute. Possessive, old-fashioned.” She spears another piece of pancake, drowns it in the chocolate sauce. “When she was sent back from the house, he connected the dots.”

Poor little Anna. So small, and her husband so big, his hands like spades. She couldn’t have lasted long against them.

“You don’t need to tell these lies to me, Oksana, we both know the truth.”

“You should always lie, Konstantin.” She smiles at him, with her chocolate-smeared mouth. Like a child. “It’s good practice.”

His brow is furrowed, making him look more like a bear than usual. He doesn’t appreciate her humour, never has. “She told Dmitry about you.” Villanelle tilts her head at the words, pops a piece of pancake in her mouth. He seems to be waiting for her to contest him, but she doesn’t bother. Like he said, they both know the truth. “And then you told her husband about Dmitry.”

Well, it’s not like she could tell him about herself. Teenage girl or not, she wouldn’t risk it. Father, on the other hand, even a brute wouldn’t dare to touch.

“I got my punishment. Why shouldn’t she get hers?”

(...)

It isn’t all general statements about intrinsic worth and morality. When it comes to Eve, and to anyone, there are also the more personal tethers. Even if Villanelle made all the rules of society void in Eve’s eyes, she would still be stuck on the particulars. Her pointless job and her worthless husband, like ropes around her wrists. But not for long.

It starts before Madrid. Professor Haleton is in the Biology department and has never before crossed paths with Villanelle, but as she prowls the corridors of the university looking for anything that might make a profitable lesson, he is the one who provides the opportunity.

She watches from a distance, half-hidden behind a door, as a young woman leaves his office, followed by the professor. He spends some time attempting to make pleasant conversation, not much affected by the girl’s look of discomfort, then leans closer and rests his hand on her waist. She doesn’t seem to like that at all, but still does nothing.

Villanelle waits for the pair to separate, then has a look at the office door. Professor Frank Haleton, who a quick search of the school website tells her has a permanent position and a very prolific academic career. Some further searching, using less legal methods, confirms that he has been up to this naughty business for some time now. Perfect.

After that, it’s easy enough to get his attention. She eats at the teachers’ canteen with Eve, catches the man’s eye, lets his interest pull him to their table. After some awkward forced interaction, Eve escapes to get coffee, but Villanelle stays behind. And then it’s only a matter of careful placement and just the right amount of encouragement to have the perfect scene waiting for Eve’s return.

Villanelle, studying the rodent-like man with a sneer. Haleton, unaware or just unbothered, far too close for comfort, and hidden from the sight of all but someone entering at that very moment, at just the right angle to catch the action under the table, a hand moving to Villanelle’s knee.

Eve doesn’t like the man, that much is clear, because she doesn’t even try to justify the situation for a moment. She jumps straight to creep. To be fair, she isn’t wrong.

She does some very righteous and upstanding bureaucratic work and finds just what Villanelle expected. Professor Haleton is a valued member of the academic community, Professor Haleton brings in significant funds in research grants every year, Professor Haleton would _definitely_ be removed if there were enough evidence of wrongdoing and the affected students stepped forward. Unfortunately, and to the great regret of the institution, that is not the case.

How terrible, isn’t it? The university simply has no sense of integrity.

A bit after that, maybe before Madrid too. It’s hard to remember, it’s just an afternoon like any other. Eve is grading papers at Villanelle’s flat, spread out on her sofa, and Villanelle sips on a vodka rocks with a little decorating lemon slice. She can make them impressively thin. The trick is a very sharp knife.

“How much longer?” she whines from her chair. There is another glass in front of her, prepared for Eve, but apparently _sobriety_ is an essential part of grading.

“Not much more. I’m already on yours,” Eve calls back, the comment clearly meant to catch her interest. She indulges, bringing over her drink to sit right next to Eve.

“Well? Is it an A? A+?”

“It’s a B,” Eve states with finality. Not this again.

Villanelle huffs into her drink. “A B is boring. Just make it an A.” She rolls her eyes at the stern look her proposition receives. “What? Surely there must be some advantage to fucking the teacher.”

“The advantage is 24-hour access to tutoring.”

“I’ll bet Frank gives his girls As. And I’m _willingly_ sleeping with you, so that should bump me up even higher.”

“Oksana, that isn’t funny. Those girls are being taken advantage of.”

“The school doesn’t care, why should I?”

“Background?” Eve asks unhappily. But they’ll get to the background later, so Villanelle lets it go for now.

“Why do you even care if it’s an A or a B or whatever? Nobody is going to check. And if they do, they won’t suspect anything. I am an A student. You said it yourself.”

“I said you’d be an A student with another teacher. With me, you’re a B.”

Villanelle sighs and sets down her drink on the nearest available surface, sending a few books flying to the floor in the process. Oh well, no loss there.

“It’s just a pointless grade. I’m never going to use it anyway, it won’t be anything more than a letter on a piece of paper somewhere.” She really doesn’t understand all the resistance. It’s a symbolic gesture, if anything. Eve is the one who believes in romance, shouldn’t she be more open to this?

“Then why do _you_ care whether it’s an A or a B?”

“Because, Eve, I don’t thrift shop. I don’t buy knock-offs. When I am in need of a sweater, I do not walk into H&M. I don’t like second best. Ever.”

“But you don’t have to get it this way. I know you can earn it, you’re smart enough.”

“Like those girls earned Frank’s hand down their pants?”

“Oksana!”

Oh, now suddenly we’re touchy. Eve is such a drama queen.

“Villanelle,” she reminds her slowly, marking the syllables. Eve’s temper seems to quiet down at the word. “You will give me an A. And then, when you realize that absolutely nothing in your life has changed as consequence, you will thank me for the nice lesson I have taught you.”

“Which is?”

“That nobody cares what you’re doing in that office of yours.”

She leans forward, closes her fingers around Eve’s hand, still holding the pen, and brings it down to the first page, where she has written down “ _Good control of the material, but lacking a personal touch._ ” Always going on about the same thing, this one. Villanelle scratches out the end. “ _Good control of the material._ ” There, that’s better.

“It will be very liberating, you’ll see.”

She lets go of the pen. Eve writes the A without further resistance.

Weeks pass. They go to Madrid, and return. They walk by Professor Haleton in the corridor and Eve’s lip curls with disgust at the sight.

“You know, we could take care of him ourselves,” Villanelle offers once they’re back at the office. Eve seems interested. Her little vigilante. “I know some people who know some people.”

“What kind of people?”

She hums, inspects her fingernails. “People who sell drugs.”

“What are you saying?”

“We plant cocaine in his office and get him fired.”

“What?”

“It could also be meth. Do you think that would be more believable?”

“That sounds a little risky.” Is that really Eve’s only concern? It’s nice to know how far she’s progressed. Villanelle has done a wonderful job, as always.

“Oh, we wouldn’t do it ourselves. I also know people who are very good at sneaking, and stealing office keys, and returning them when they’re done.”

“So we don’t have to do anything?”

“Not unless you want to.”

Eve thinks it over. She wants to be the one to turn him in. Adorable.

Days later, the two of them squeeze into a pay phone and Villanelle slips the coins into the slot as Eve cradles the receiver. They call the school, Eve makes a silly voice and introduces herself as a Good Samaritan. It’s all very dramatic and ridiculous, but they have really good sex afterwards.

Professor Frank Haleton is submitted to a 6-month audit to go with the official investigation. He is removed from teaching and placed on a full-time research position for the duration.

Eve stops grading Villanelle’s papers. She just slaps the A on the first page. The third chain unravels and dwindles to nothing.

(...)

Konstantin enters a seemingly empty apartment. He is unaware of Villanelle, deathly quiet and concealed by the stairs. As he steps into the room, she jumps, latching on to his back.

“Who do you work for?” she demands loudly, her arm already twisting around his neck for support.

His only response is a yell as the big man tries to flip her off of him. She resists, elbows digging into him, then finally lets go and drops to the ground. His face is a mask of gentlemanly displeasure and she breaks into laughter at the sight.

“But really, who do you work for?”

Konstantin ignores the question, as he always does. It’s why she keeps having to find new ways of asking it. Something will work eventually.

“Don’t do that, my heart can’t take it,” he says instead, clutching at its general location.

“Nonsense, you are so young and sprightly.” She taps his chest in support, just a tiny bit too hard to be friendly. “Nothing to fear.”

Konstantin seems offended at the kind and generous words. He pulls away from her embrace and walks silently into the room, offering no excuse for his appearance. As expected of the reclusive man. Villanelle stalks behind him, rolling her eyes at the display.

“Why are you here?” she recites in a sing-song. He always needs the encouragement to finally get things off of his chest and move along.

“What are you doing with Polastri?”

Oh, her again? Somebody is getting obsessed. She sucks in air through her teeth, a little embarrassed for him. “Oh, Konstantin, I think you should just look that one up on your own.”

He takes a few more steps inside, without ever taking off his shoes. How could Villanelle ever call him gentlemanly? Clearly he is a slob.

“You are being reckless. Taking unnecessary risks. If this blows up in your face, you could get expelled.”

She rolls her head around her shoulders, too bored to express it in mere words.

“It won’t,” she says simply.

“It might.”

“But it won’t,” she repeats, then walks around him to get to the kitchen. He spins around to keep facing her.

“You’re so close to graduating, just… keep the fallout for after, okay?”

“Okay, _dad_ ,” she drags out playfully, then punctuates the word with a wink. He _really_ hates that, she notes with satisfaction. “And there will be no fallout. I know what I am doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Konstantin knows that Villanelle doesn’t want to tell him. He always pushes like this when he thinks she has a secret. Like he’s her father or something. The thing is, he really isn’t, and so it will never work. She sighs.

“Konstantin, I would really like to keep this a professional relationship, do you understand? If you need someone to read you lesbian erotica-”

“Alright, alright,” he cuts her off, raising his hands in defeat. Finally. At least there are some tactics that she can always count on.

Seeing that he will get no answers today, he heads for the door. She considers the situation, watching his steps.

“Wait!” she calls out, tone suddenly serious. He turns with surprise. “I want combat lessons,” she carries on with a little smile and big, entreating eyes. He chuckles in return.

“You’ve had over a decade of self-defence training. I think you’re good.”

“But what if you had been a robber? Look how easily you overpowered me!” She pouts, gesturing vaguely towards the stairs. Her eyes go wider, blinking like the picture-perfect damsel in distress. That seems to buy her a few more seconds of interest, as he settles in place and crosses his arms expectantly. “I want to work with knives,” she finally concludes.

Now he doesn’t chuckle. He just laughs, his loud, full-belly laugh. He sounds like he’s choking on something. “You? Knives?” His hand comes up to wipe at the corner of his eye and his laughter slowly dies down to a smile. “No. Absolutely not. You are already scary enough.”

He turns back to the door. Villanelle wonders if it’s worth trying something else, getting a few more amusing reactions out of him before he’s gone. The best one is the fear, anyway, and that one only tends to come out once or twice per encounter. She already had the good bit at the start, so it’s unlikely she’ll get more.

“But I want to be prepared,” she throws at him just as he opens the door. He stops and looks at her over his shoulder.

“You want to be prepared? Figure out what you’re going to do about Polastri.”

The playfulness evaporates on the spot. She is no longer interested in entertainment. Her face utterly blank and set like a stony mask, she watches Konstantin disappear out of the door.

(...)

In this case, last does happen to be least. The final chain is pathetic, barely an attachment at all, but Villanelle is aware that even the most decayed of marriages holds a strong pull, even if only because of the weight behind the institution. So, sad as it may be to waste time with this, she needs to cut Niko out.

Well, there’s all the sex. That part definitely weakens the connection. Eve does a great job of pretending that Niko doesn’t even exist, when they’re together. No mention of him, no outbursts of guilt, no tearful remorse. She is generally very enthusiastic, actually.

After Villanelle shares the emotional story of Anna, Eve is inspired to come three times in quick succession, hands clenched tightly against the headboard and Villanelle’s fingers pumping into her faster and faster.

In Madrid, they drink half the bottle of wine – the good one, the ‘78 that Villanelle actually ordered – and Eve spends an hour beneath the sheets, going down on her. And in Rome… Oh, Villanelle hasn’t gone over Rome yet, has she?

Rome is a lovely romantic trip. A week between terms, when the weather has grown warm enough that even London can be pleasant. A nice little week for the married couple.

Niko and Eve arrive in Rome, probably on a very cheap and uncomfortable flight, on a Monday. They settle into their painfully average hotel and spend a couple of days walking the streets, taking in the sights, crowding into all the tourist spots.

As luck would have it, Villanelle also has a free week at this time. Because she is a student. And on this free week, she feels a yearning for travel. So she books a quick flight to Genoa and from there charters a yacht to take her on a leisurely trip around the Italian coast.

It is, then, the most unexpected and wonderful of coincidences, that Villanelle’s yacht is moored in Civitavecchia, also known as the Port of Rome, on the very day that the happy couple decide to explore the sea-facing location.

Eve is happy to see Villanelle, embarrassingly so. Niko seems to shrivel up into his moustache at the sight of the luxury sea vessel where Villanelle has been spending her nights. Oh, Niko. Does it strike him at that moment that he could never compete? Or did he already know? Villanelle isn’t sure, because she has never bothered to spend much time in his shoes. It seems an awful place to be.

What she does know is that when she offers to take them on a quick ride, just to feel the salty spray on their faces and maybe partake of the generously-stocked liquor cabinet, Niko’s moustache crumbles further into his face. He gets seasick. Oh, but Eve doesn’t.

And then he’s just off and Eve is with Villanelle, promising to meet her beloved husband “in an hour or something.” The love truly overflows.

There’s a quick tour of the deck, a moment where Eve actually seems like she’d be happy to catch the salt in her hair until it’s completely ruined, but when Villanelle offers to show her the inside, she agrees easily.

That’s when they end up at the bridge, with the pilot who speaks only Italian but must surely understand the very common English phrases like “fuck” and “oh God” that Eve gasps out in between all the moaning. The background who will not complain because Villanelle will give him a nice tip. Maybe he likes being included, who knows?

They have time for a second round in the cabin, on an actual bed. Afterwards, they lie in silence. Villanelle can tell that there is something on Eve’s mind. She watches her, silently, until the woman makes up her mind.

“It’s our anniversary,” she whispers.

“Has it been a year already?” Villanelle jokes back.

“With Niko, I mean.”

“Oh. Happy anniversary. And he brought you to Rome, very romantic.”

“And I ditched him to come have sex on your yacht.”

“To be fair, this is probably the nicest bed you’ve seen all week.”

Eve ignores the comment, rolls over on her back.

“I shouldn’t be doing this. I feel bad.”

“Do you feel bad because you shouldn’t be doing it and you are anyway? Or because you should feel bad and you don’t really?”

“I _do_ feel bad,” Eve argues weakly.

“Then why are you on this yacht?”

That gets nothing but silence. Villanelle doesn’t ask the many follow-up questions she could pose. Why does Eve avoid him at any cost? Why does his presence seem to put her on edge? Why does she claim to feel guilty but then have sex with wild abandon, without a distraction? Eve already knows.

And that makes her so much closer to crumbling, but it also makes her more prickly. More given to lash out. So Villanelle lets her unravel herself.

“I love Niko.”

One breath. Two breaths. The sound of waves sets the pace that neither of them follows.

“Why?” Eve sends her a look. Villanelle returns it blankly. “That shouldn’t be that difficult to answer, Eve.”

“He’s a good man.”

Villanelle scoffs. “And that’s what you want now? Good makes up for boring, and stale, and for the moustache?” She realizes after the words have left her that she was supposed to leave it up to Eve. But oh, does she hate that stupid moustache.

“What’s wrong with his moustache?”

Villanelle isn’t sure what response to give, so she just laughs. After a beat, Eve joins her.

“He didn’t have it when we met. He started growing it after a couple of years.” Eve’s eyes are softer, deep in the grip of nostalgia. That’s all she has to cling to, these days. “One time I got him to shave it off, but after all those years it was like the hair had taken over the face, he just- he has, like, no upper lip any more.”

“Sounds horrifying.”

Eve sighs, very deeply. It is sad for her, to understand that she has already broken apart her marriage. That she doesn’t want to salvage it.

“If it makes you feel any better, he doesn’t want you either. The you that you are now.”

“He wants the person he married.”

“He is as selfish as you.”

Eve lets out a low laugh. “Oh, I doubt that.”

“He’s just selfish without the fun,” Villanelle insists. “He sees that you have changed but he doesn’t accept it or try to keep up. He digs his heels and wants his old wife back. He doesn’t want a happy marriage, he just wants to be happy.”

“He wants me to be happy too.”

“He wants you to be happy with the things that make him happy.”

“He’s stuck?”

“ _You’re_ stuck.”

There’s no retort from Eve, no challenge to Villanelle’s finality. That’s the last of the chains, rotted away. After that, it’s just the sound of the waves. Eve is lost in her thoughts. Villanelle is happy to distract herself until Niko returns for his wife.

So this is how a marriage ends. Not with a bang but a whimper. Looking at those two, she couldn’t imagine it any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was interesting to write, i hope it was also interesting to read!
> 
> Come check me out on twitter @evesaxe ^^


	8. I don't give a fuck about tables

It’s 9 PM and the living room feels more than ever like a prison cell. For once, it isn’t just Eve that feels it, and that might be what makes it all so much more oppressive. She sits alone on the large sofa, gazing vacantly at the TV screen and pretending she doesn’t notice how Niko is at the dining table, far away, all of the distance intentional.

He’s looking at her. She looks at the TV and pretends she doesn’t see it from the corner of her eye, him looking at her. He says nothing, just looks, for the longest time. If she turned to face him, she’d read his mind in his expression. She’d know whether he’s angry, worried, sad. Maybe just distracted; maybe she’s wrong and he feels nothing out of place, maybe he got carried away thinking of his work and didn’t realize the way his eyes bore holes into the side of her head.

Probably not.

If she says nothing, if she looks at the TV hard enough, they might be able to get through this night without a word. His determination might falter, he might hesitate until it’s too late and they’re hiding under sheets and the pretence of sleep. It won’t be much longer, now.

“Eve.”

She grips the remote so tightly, she swears she hears the plastic creak in her hand. She changes the channel.

“Eve, we need to talk.”

Finally, she is forced to peel her eyes away from the screen, towards her husband. He looks serious, the lines on his face harder and deeper than she remembers. He looks so old, all of a sudden. Is that what she looks like? Is that what she _will_ look like, if she lets herself sink back into their dull existence?

“What’s wrong?” she asks, voice artificially light. She knows she can’t avoid her way out of this one, but at this point it’s instinct to give it a try. Niko sighs at the question.

“So much. I’m not even sure where to start.”

“Then what _isn’t_ wrong? Is that one easier?” It was a joke, but there’s no reaction. Niko leans back in his chair and his expression grows even darker.

“What’s happened to you?”

She really hopes that one’s rhetorical, because she could spend a night and a day answering it and still not come close. Niko seems to understand as much, but her silence still drains him, wilts something in his eyes. Is it the lack of denial? She thought he’d hate that more.

“You’ve always had your rough edges. Your tough days. But you’re a good person, and you try your best to be kind, and gentle, and these days it’s like the Eve I know has been buried under so much… Just so much, that I can’t find her. Instead, there’s someone harsh. Not the funny or the harmless kind of harsh. Harsh and sharp, like you could draw blood.”

She pulls a pillow into her lap, feels her fingers dig deep into it. The yield of the material isn’t comforting; she wishes for something with a little more resistance. Something she could dent.

“You’re mean when you don’t have to be.” He raises a hand to cut off her protests. “I don’t mean to me. To waiters, to people on the street, to our friends. You’re mean now, and you lie, and I can’t even tell whether it’s really a lie sometimes, or why you’re doing it. It’s like you don’t even look for a reason any more. You just want to do it, so you do.”

His hand, still raised, trembles a little in the air. He lowers it once he notices, seems ashamed. His eyes fix on Eve’s pleadingly. “Why do you do it?”

She looks off into a point just over his shoulder, avoids the gaze. He won’t like her answer.

“Because I can.”

He doesn’t just dislike it. He flinches at the words, like she’s thrown them in his face. They fill him with despair, with desperation.

“Eve, you’ve been turned into someone else, someone I barely recognize. Someone who does horrible things.” She shakes her head, because he’s wrong, but she’s sure he doesn’t understand the way in which he is wrong, so she doesn’t try to interrupt his speech. “But I know that the real Eve is still somewhere in there. And I know that she doesn’t want to do this. If you can just find her-”

“People change, Niko,” she finally cuts in. He stops to take a deep breath and study her incredulously. Oksana was right. They’re stuck. “Are you looking for _the real Eve_ , or for the one you married all those years ago?”

There is a very long silence and Eve realizes that Niko is preparing to say something, something more, something he’s been holding back. The world around her seems to slow down, every moment taking ages, and then he opens his mouth.

“There’s someone else, isn’t there? All those nights that you say you’re with Oksana, are you really with her? All of them? Or does she provide the convenient lie while you go off and-”

It makes her want to laugh. It really, really does. Even now, with the truth staring him in the face, he doesn’t want to see it. She can’t help it when the laughter tumbles out of her throat, her head tilting to the skies with the force of it.

It stuns Niko into silence. When he speaks again, his voice is haunted.

“Who made you this person? Who turned you into this?”

“Oh, Niko. You really don’t get it, do you?” There’s no amusement left in her when she says it. It’s just sad. It’s sad that she has to say it, because he refuses so stubbornly to believe it. “This is who I am. It’s who I’ve always been. I spent years and years, my whole life, trying to hide it, because I know that you’re not supposed to feel this way. I built up walls and I pushed it deep inside, so I could be like everyone else. If they could do it, I could do it, right? But, oh God, I realized something awful.”

She pauses, collects herself before the shake in her voice takes her over. “Nobody else is doing it. Nobody else needs walls, needs to fake it. And that made me notice, for the first time, how exhausted I was of playing along. I haven’t been changing, or losing myself. I’ve been peeling away all of the layers of compromise and concealment and concession that I have built up over the past 40 years. I can’t pile them back on, not again. Now I’m just Eve.”

“No, you’re not!” He gets to his feet with the intensity of his refutation. His chair wobbles for a second, then settles back into place. Eve doesn’t get up, but she grips the pillow tighter as her annoyance grows. How long must they go on?

“For God’s sake, Niko! Do you want to know who I am? Who I really am? Do you want to know how I feel, every day? Who the _real Eve_ is, has always been?”

He looks scared. He doesn’t nod or intervene, just looks at her with a pale face.

“I wake up sometimes and I get this feeling, I just... That I know exactly how the day will go. I know what you’ll say when I come downstairs and what I’ll say back, I know what I’ll have for breakfast, and what time I’ll leave and the route I’ll take to work and which subway car I’ll sit in. I know what classes I’ll have and how the students will behave and which one will pipe up and make a joke – the same joke, always the same joke – and what I’ll have for lunch and who I’ll sit with in the cafeteria and…”

She takes a deep breath. She’s dizzy after all that, not just from talking but from the dreadful vertigo that she’s conjuring up in her mind, the predictability of it all, always hanging over her.

“And it just makes me want to scream. You know? I feel like I’m already dead and I’m just biding my time, waiting for it to catch up with me.”

Niko didn’t expect it. She knew he wouldn’t, but it still hits her so hard. God, he really doesn’t mind it. He _loves_ knowing how every second of every day will go. It’s probably reassuring. Soothing.

“I’m so bored, all the fucking time, and I didn’t realize it until… But I am, I honestly really am. I want to say something, to scream, to grab people and ask them, ‘Are you bored too? Are you dying too? Are you just clinging to 7 PM dinners and _The Price is Right_ and fucking- fucking drinks with friends, ‘ _but only one more because my liver isn’t what it used to be’_ , are you just clinging to routine because you’re terrified that there’s nothing else left underneath?’”

Among everything else, she thinks that this is the real gift that Oksana has given her. She’s shown her the truth, that she isn’t like everyone else. That she won’t be happy with what everyone else has. That she needs to let go. Let go of everything.

“But I come home and you’re cooking dinner and you’re happy, aren’t you? You really are. So maybe it’s just me. Maybe everybody else lives their lives in a fucking coma and they love it. They love it. Routine doesn’t feel like a garrotte around their throat, squeezing and squeezing and choking you while you smile. I mean, look at you. You’re standing here, accusing your wife of cheating and it still feels so goddamn predictable. Like some TV show.”

It’s sad. The end of a marriage always is, she guesses, even the ones that have been doomed for a long time. Even if this is a man who can never bring her anything but boredom, she loved him once. She loved him a lot, in her own way. The Eve that she tried to be was happy with him.

“I think we’re done here, don’t you?” she asks, quietly after the fiery speech. Niko looks tired as he gives in. He doesn’t speak up, finally beaten. “I’m never going to be the person you want, now. I’ll never make you happy again.”

“Shall we go to bed, then?” he offers blankly. She shrugs and gets up from the sofa. On the way up, his hand settles on her shoulder, making her turn around to face him. “It hardly matters now, but can you tell me? _Did_ you cheat on me?”

She could lie. It wouldn’t change anything about the situation. And it isn’t like either answer will make him happy.

“Yes, I did.”

(...)

“The Polastri woman is leaving her husband.” That is the first thing Konstantin says as he barrels into Villanelle’s apartment. Not even a greeting. Rude. She studies him over the rim of her glass, unimpressed.

“Wow, you are obsessed with her,” she comments drily. He pauses to pierce her with one of his disciplinary glares. _Oh, look at me, I am grandfather Konstantin and my big stomach and greying beard are supposed to scare you for some reason_.

“So you did not plan this?” he asks with a big measure of scepticism. She shrugs, which he hates, and which she does because she knows he hates it.

“How do you even know that, anyway? Do you have spies?”

She will never admit it, so it doesn’t get to his head, but the information has come as a pleasant surprise to her. Eve did text her earlier today, asking to meet at the flat after dinner, but she assumed it was just another booty call. This is much better.

She will miss the sex, a little. But sex is replaceable, and the memory of the precious moment when she sets Eve loose on the world will accompany her forever.

“I have to keep track of you somehow.” He rummages through her kitchen without asking for permission and pours himself a tiny glass of vodka. It looks so funny, like a circus bear trying to have a proper person drink with his big clumsy paws. “This isn’t going to be another Anna, is it?”

She scoffs. Eve, Anna, Eve, Anna, does Konstantin ever think of anything else?

“Please, have you seen her husband? The only thing that man can break is a sweat.” She pictures the sad little shrivelled face receiving the devastating news, probably just sitting there whining, like a kicked puppy.

“You’ll find another way to punish her, if that’s what you want.”

“Why would I want to punish her?”

“There are only two ways this can end, Oksana,” he says tiredly. But he’s still holding the little glass, so nothing he says can sound too serious. She bites back a smile.

“You know, your father was afraid of you by the end.” The words send a little shock through her, something like surprise, or anger, or pleasure. The stronger emotions tend to be a little more difficult to identify. “After your brother disappeared, he used to tell me he made a mistake. _You_ were the one he should have sent away. But he was greedy, he wanted your ambition, your quick thinking. He never understood you, never stopped seeing you as that fragile little girl.”

“I was never a fragile little girl,” she points out, and her voice sounds odd. Rough, like she’s choking on something. She realizes she’s very angry, so she takes a deep breath, because that is what you do when you are angry, to push out the feeling.

“How was it that he died?” Konstantin asks, as if his memory fails him. Villanelle contorts her features into a smile. It must be a frightening one, because she sees a hint of a flinch when Konstantin faces her.

“Poison. One of the kitchen staff hid it in his food. You really can’t trust the help.” She picks at the little slice of lemon in her drink. “Oh well, at least she is behind bars now.”

“Oh, no, I heard she died. Killed herself before the trial.” Suddenly Konstantin recalls it all, does he? Villanelle isn’t sure why he is telling this story again. He is a strange man, like the people who ride roller coasters. He wants to make himself scared. “She seemed very afraid of something.”

She nods, considering the information as if it is new. “Justice,” she suggests with dramatic flair. Konstantin gives another of his heavy laughs, finally puts down his empty glass.

“More like some _one_.” She studies him blankly. If he wants to say something, he should just say it, instead of playing it up for the audience. “Whoever hired her? Hmm?”

“Is this another of your conspiracy theories, Konstantin?”

Suddenly he is right in front of her, staring into her face. His jaw clenches with the force of keeping in whatever it is he is keeping in. Probably more thinly-veiled accusations.

Konstantin was an old friend of Father. Close enough that, after his tragic early departure from this world, he left Konstantin to run things in his place. Konstantin probably cared about him. Probably gets upset when he is reminded of how his dear friend died.

Sometimes Villanelle forgets that people do that.

“Dmitry never understood you, Oksana, but I do.”

“I know,” she says happily. She extends a finger to poke the tip of his nose, and at that he finally leans back out of her personal space. “You are afraid of me.”

“We should all be,” he says grimly. She smiles. He is right.

(...)

The sun sets and the hours slowly pass. Villanelle is restless, pacing the room, eager for time to hurry and bring her Eve. She wonders how she is spending these hours. Is she with Niko, having one more awkward meal? Will she stay with him while they separate, or will she expect to come live with Villanelle? Oh, that would be deliciously tragic.

The conversation plays out in the back of Villanelle’s mind, different every time but always the same in essence. Eve comes to her, sometimes in tears, sometimes cold as stone, sometimes laughing out loud at the memory of her husband’s twitching moustache as she broke the news. She twists herself around Villanelle, clings to her, showers her with all the love she holds inside, all the devotion that doesn’t fit into anyone else any more. And then Villanelle peels her arms away, disgusted, severe. Or contrite, sorrowful. How dreadful that Eve has deluded herself in this way.

Sure, Villanelle is the only one who understands her. Who encourages her. Who appreciates her for what she really is, in all its jagged and amoral glory. But they just wouldn’t work. Eve isn’t good enough. Villanelle deserves better than a washed-up university professor having a mid-life crisis. She deserves someone with a fancy title, like a Baroness. Or someone with her own mansion, who won’t just leech off of her hard-earned money. Certainly not Eve.

Her phone lights up with a notification and she jumps to read it. It’s Eve, she’s coming.

She busies herself by making a couple of gin and tonics, with two thin little hand-cut slices of lemon on the rim of each glass. Once she is done perfectly adjusting them, Eve is still not there, so she sits by the island and slowly turns the knife in her hands.

Of course Konstantin wouldn’t let her learn armed combat. He is so boring. But the joke is on him, because she will finish her degree soon and then she won’t need him hanging around anymore. She will be able to get all the self-defence training she wants. She could learn to use crossbows; those have always seemed so odd and impractical. It would be very quirky of her, she thinks.

The doorbell rings. She drops the knife carelessly and it clatters against the counter before coming to a stop at an awkward angle. She opens the door.

“Eve,” she says with practised detachment. Eve’s face is drawn, lips pressed tightly together. Very serious, very formal.

“Hello, Oksana,” she says, already stepping into the room.

“Villanelle,” she reminds with a roll of her eyes, and closes the door. “Would you like a drink?”

“Some wine would be nice.”

“Well, I already made gin and tonic.”

“Then you should have asked first.”

“Eve,” she says warningly. Eve is being difficult. This is no way to win a woman’s heart.

Instead of answering, Eve walks across the room, reaches for one of the glasses and brings it to her lips, draining it in a series of long gulps.

“Can I have wine now?” she asks, a little out of breath, after slamming the glass back down on the counter.

“If you’re going to chug it too, I can just go to the corner store and get some of the five-pound stuff.”

“I ended things with Niko.”

Eve is expecting a big reaction, Villanelle assumes. It’s a show-stopper of a declaration. Not something you brush aside to go back to the topic of unappreciated expensive alcohol.

“When?”

“Last night.”

“Alright. I will get the wine.”

They don’t take the sofa. Eve wants to stay by the kitchen, where she can set down her glass and lean on the counter and apparently it is now, after months of visiting the place, that she has some problem with the absence of a table.

“You can’t have a serious conversation on a sofa. You can’t even face the other person, unless you sit sideways with your legs crossed or something. And if I’m sitting cross-legged on the sofa with a glass of wine, I feel like I’m about to… I don’t know, gossip? Like I’m on Desperate Housewives or something.”

Villanelle ignores the speech because it’s nonsense and Eve is only saying it to stall on what she wants to say, anyway. Villanelle’s drink sits abandoned by the sink and they both hold generous glasses of wine, the liquid a deep burgundy under the dim lighting of the little overhead lamp, low near their heads.

Eve is the one playing with the knife now, turning it over and over in her hands and pressing the tip first to index finger, then to thumb. Never hard enough to draw blood. Just the hint of contact, the denting of the skin.

“You should get a table.”

“Eve, I don’t give a fuck about tables and neither do you,” Villanelle cuts in drily. She wants to snatch the knife away, because Eve won’t stop fiddling with it. The tension of waiting is building up inside her and the need for release grows more acute. She is not a fan of delayed gratification.

A sigh and the knife is down. Placed very carefully in the middle of the counter, precisely aligned with its length.

“We need to talk.”

“Because you ended things with Niko?”

Finally, finally, finally, it’s so close that Villanelle can taste it now.

“Yes and no. Maybe ending it with him gave me the courage to do this.” So close, the words form themselves in Villanelle’s mind before Eve speaks them, she senses the next as it comes, she tenses as if ready to pounce. “But I think I’d have to do it either way.”

“Do what?” Two words, spoken with careful precision, so they don’t give anything away.

“Oksana, you have shown me things I never thought could be true before. Things about the world, and about people, and about me. Because of you, everything has changed in my life. You… You peeled away all the layers of lies and you set me free, because you saw what I was from the start. I wanted to thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome,” she says pleasantly. For once she doesn’t comment on the wrong name, which Eve insists on continuing to use. The compliments allow her some leeway. Besides, she will be upset soon enough.

“But you’re different.”

“I am better,” she concludes for Eve. She says it playfully, but she also means it.

“Maybe. Depends on your definition of better.”

Eve seems confused with herself now. She takes another drink while she gets her thoughts in order. Villanelle watches the glass move, glint as it catches the light, the liquid going dark and bright and dark again as it shifts under the low lamp.

“I think everybody has some layers, some lies they’ve accreted. For most of them, it’s a thing here or there. Just some smoothing around the edges. For others, like me, it’s a _lot_.” Eve pauses to chuckle at the description. “But not you.”

“I have no layers?”

That one makes Eve laugh louder. Villanelle freezes, anticipated pleasure faltering for the first time, because she doesn’t understand. She isn’t sure what is happening and she doesn’t like that feeling at all. She hates it.

“You _are_ layers. Aren’t you? You dug and dug to get to the core of what I am. But with you, I could dig forever, and if I managed to get through it all, there would just be nothing. There’s no person, just layers around a… a void.”

Villanelle has the strangest sensation. It is like someone pulling the ground out from under her, like the beginning of that endless falling. She grasps the edges of the counter for support, so the vertigo will recede. This isn’t what she planned.

“I think we should end things.”

“I love you,” Villanelle fires back, a lie, of course it’s a lie, but Eve is slipping away. She needs to catch her, pin her down, she needs to win. “Nobody else will, not like you are now.”

“You don’t love me. You’re not capable of it. You told me all that stuff about the people that matter, but you don’t have any of those, do you? It’s all background. Just you and background.”

“You think you’re better than me?” She gets to her feet, hands still gripping the counter. Eve doesn’t move, only watches her, placid. So above Villanelle’s anger. “You think you just get to leave?”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Is that laughter in her voice? Eve is amused now? She is watching Villanelle make a scene and sitting quietly and thinking, _Niko didn’t make a scene. Niko accepted defeat with dignity_.

“I will go to the school,” Villanelle says. She raises her chin to look down at Eve, makes herself larger, makes her voice steadier, quieter. She is in control. She is going to win, no matter what. “I will tell them about your behaviour, how you abused your power with me. You don’t have Frank’s funding to keep you there. They will cut you loose.”

“I quit,” Eve says with a small smile. “Called them up this morning. God, it felt good. I’ll never have to coddle another idiotic student, never have to send another pointless paper for publication, never _ever_ have to discuss Hemingway again.”

“What have you done, Eve? No husband, no job, no nothing. What are you going to do? Do you think it just works like that? You jump out at the world with nothing and you get by?” She swings her arms into the air, she is carried away in her speech, she points out the whole world with her hands.

The room is suddenly shifting, light piercing the darkness like an erratic rubber ball, drifting one way and another. As the movement slows, Villanelle realizes she has hit the lamp and it swings on its perch. An awkward, figure-eight motion that makes the world move ominously.

“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. All I know is, anything is better than this.”

Eve’s face dips in and out of shadow as she looks up at her placidly. No fear. No worries. Villanelle’s glass of wine, still full, goes a deep maroon in the uneven light, its contents suddenly thick and clotted and sinister. She reaches for it, fingers numb, knocks it over. The red wine spills across the counter, drips over the edge into her hardwood floor.

Eve gets up. She is watching the wine drip from a thousand miles away, she isn’t even there anymore. In her mind, she has already walked out of Villanelle’s apartment.

“You can’t.”

But she can, she can, she can. She can just leave. She can just win. She can take her darkness, the darkness that Villanelle _gave_ her, _showed_ her, _taught_ her, and let herself be consumed, alone, unaffected.

And no matter how many years pass, as long as Eve is alive, she will be able to think back to this moment and laugh. Laugh at how little Oksana thought she had won. Thought she had worked everything into its proper place, set the dominoes up for the grand finale. At how she was wrong.

The wine spreads across the counter, seeps into the wooden handle of the knife, dyes the brown a deep royal purple. It slips under the blade, which doesn’t touch the counter, which suddenly shines as the light from the lamp hits it in its receding orbit.

They all thought they won. Anna, when she had had enough of her lavish gifts, sure of Father’s authority above all others. Father himself, when he sent Villanelle away to study. Told her she was too young, too immature. And now Eve. She thinks she’s won too.

Eve is leaving. She’s by the door, clicking the latch open, pulling at the handle. Villanelle hears it all, her steps and the click of the mechanism, but she doesn’t look. She is watching the royal purple, the ever-spreading stain. It’s like it never stops.

She is watching the knife, long and sharp and cold and untouchable. She is standing by the counter as the lamp tilts backwards and forwards, lights her features with a blinding light then swings away.

“Goodbye, Oksana.”

She grabs the knife. She turns around.

“Villanelle. Call me _Villanelle_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! How did you feel about that ending? 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Come check me out on twitter @evesaxe ^^


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